Poisoned Apple
by julian-juliana
Summary: Hermione's parents have no idea how to cope with their daughter's peculiarities and think it best to send her away to an institute at the age of seven. There, she catches the interest of a doctor who sees opportunity and is smuggled out of the establishment and sold to the highest bidder—HYDRA. A vicious tale of Dark! Hermione to Redeemed! Hermione. Eventual Hermione/Bucky.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Poisoned Apple**

 **Rating: M**

Summary: Hermione's parents have no idea how to cope with their daughter's _peculiarities_ and think it best to send her away to an institute at the age of seven. There, she catches the interest of a doctor who sees opportunity and is smuggled out and sold to the highest bidder—HYDRA.

 **Warning: Child abuse-sexual, physical, verbal, and emotional. Death of a child. Animal cruelty, language, implicit sexual content and references between f/f and f/m, violence, gore. Spoilers and references for all MCU films and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.** **More warnings may apply as story continues.**

 **Thanks and enjoy!**

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 **Chapter 1: Like A Thief in the Night**

 **London 1987**

The doctor comes into her room, and she doesn't look up from the pages of her book. She doesn't like him. He scares her with the way he looks at her. He doesn't look at the other kids like this. He doesn't say the same things to them as he does to her.

"Hello Hermione," greets the doctor. "How are you this fine afternoon?"

She shrugs.

"You had another incident, I heard."

She shrugs again, this time belatedly. She bites her lip and tries concentrating on the page. It's a book she's read a dozen times, but reading repeatedly about Alice and the Red Queen and croquet is preferable than to indulge Dr. Lawrence.

"I'm not upset, dear girl. Not in the least." He sits on the chair closes to the wall, resting his elbows on his knees. "In fact, I would like you to try and do it again."

She shakes her head and flips a page.

He sighs and then after a moment, he makes her an offer. "I'll get you new books."

Her finger nails dig into the paperback cover, and she thinks of her humble stash on the shelf beside her. Her parents don't send new ones anymore. Why don't they? Why don't they visit? How long has it been since she's seen them? She misses them so much. Valentine's Day went by and other Mummies and Daddies paid visits.

"I want to see my mummy," she whispers. She closes the book and sets it aside on her bed, staring down at her lap.

"Hermione, they're not coming back. They left you here. Remember?"

Her eyes snap up to his doughy face. "But not forever. They said. They _promised_ to see me—"

"Sometimes grownups lie, and they lied to you. What you can do, Hermione, _frightens_ them. They don't understand."

She scowls at him to hide the tremble of her chin. " _You're_ lying."

He scoots the chair closer to her. On the floor is a teddy bear with a wind-up knob in the back. He turns it repeatedly and then sets it on the bedside table next to the lamp. It plays the tune of _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_. Her daddy got that for her for Christmas.

"It's been two months since they moved you in. They haven't been back since, and why would they? You're terrifying. What you did to that boy."

Her heart beats loudly in her little chest, and she widens her eyes. She wants to cry because she hadn't wanted to hurt Robert. She just wanted him to _stop_.

Staring down at the floor, she wishes her troubles would go away. Her parents would come back if they did.

"I didn't mean to."

"Yes, you did."

She shook her head wildly, but she doesn't quite believe herself when she says, "No. It was an accident."

"You would've been put in solitary confinement _again_ if I had not stepped in."

Her stomach began to knot, and she wanted to vomit.

"I could go change my mind—"

"No, please!" She hops off the bed, sniffling. "Please. I'll be good. There won't be any more accidents. I promise."

He dips his chin at her, as if weighing her words. "There are two things you must do for me then."

"I promise no more accidents."

"That is not what I want from you." He removes his glasses and slips them into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. "First, I want you move that bear from the table to your shelf _without_ moving from where you are."

Hermione lets out a soft and sad sob. "No, please don't make me. _Please."_

"Second, tonight I'm going to come pay you a visit, and you are not to make a sound. Is that clear?"

She couldn't answer, she's so distraught. Dr. Lawrence allows her to cry for a minute or so before losing patience and snapping at her to buck up and move the bear.

"I'll put you in solitary confinement if you don't, and I may just forget you're allowed books."

He's so horrible. Why is so mean? Hermione wiped her face, unsuccessfully wiping the tears away. Another wave of sadness and fright washes over her, and she breaks down again. Dr. Lawrence exhales sharply and gets up from his chair to roughly grab her arm.

"Off we go now…"

"No! No! I'll do it! I'll do it. Let me go, please."

He lets her go, and she drops to the floor. With her hands pressed into wood, she looks up at the bear and tries to focus. Her head already hurts from the crying, and she's feels so nauseous. The bear barely wiggles, but wiggle it does. She jerks her head up at Dr. Lawrence who appears unimpressed.

"To the shelf, Hermione," he orders.

"But—"

"No buts. Try harder."

Hermione wipes her face with her sleeve this time and gets to her feet, staring down the teddy bear, willing it to move. She extends her arms and opens her palms, the threat of being locked up alone with nothing fueling her will. Behind that threat is a deep fear of her parents never returning for her and Dr. Lawrence. What is he going to do to her when he comes back later? She can't make a sound, whatever he does.

The bear jostles and then barely lifts from the bedside table, it's fur still brushing the surface. The bear stays afloat, thankfully, and hovers and dips and hovers again until it reaches the shelf. The landing of the toy isn't soft, and the bear falls to the side. Hermione drops her arms and looks at Dr. Lawrence, half expecting him to shove her into solitary confinement anyway.

Hope bubbles up inside her because he's smiling. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to her. She takes it and wipes her face again while he pats her head.

"Good girl. Very good girl. You'll do nicely for them, I think."

"Them?"

He doesn't reply but leaves the room, leaving her shaken and not any less terrified.

After dinner, Hermione does her best in delaying going to her room. A lot of the children play out in the play area, but she knows they won't play with her. They're scared of her. They call her ugly freak. They call her wicked witch. So she reads. She goes to the bookshelves on the other side of the playroom and considers her options. There's not a lot of variety, and most she's read before. She runs her fingers along the spine, stopping at _Lord of the Flies_. She pulls it out and reads the back and thinks it must've been put in the playroom by mistake.

Still, it's new to her, and she goes to sit at the plastic tea table ready to read. Another girl is sitting there. Hermione thinks her name is Brittany, and she's deaf and has something called Asperger's. She's a couple of years younger than Hermione, and Hermione is grateful the girl doesn't seem to mind the company. For now. Brittany's occupies herself with half a dozen snow globes. Each one she shakes and shakes and then repeats. The girl presses her nose up against the rounded glass, gazing wistfully inside. The one with the frosted covered house, she stares the longest.

The time passes too quickly, and the nurses round up the children and escorts them to their rooms. Hermione shares a room with Callie, a girl two years older than her. When she reaches her room, her roommate is already there, and a nightshift nurse is helping her into pajamas. Sometimes Callie "checks out". A phrase Hermione has heard the adults say. Hermione thinks it means that Callie can be normal one minute and then not normal the next. The nine-year-old will be playing Duck, Duck, Goose with the other children. She'll pick her goose and get chased after and then suddenly stop. And stare.

At nothing.

She'll do that at night, too, which creeps Hermione out. Callie will just lay there, eyes wide open.

Even after two months, Hermione's still unsure how she fits with the other kids. When her parents said they were planning to put her in a place where there were other special children like her, she got excited. Finally, she'd be able to make friends, and these friends would understand her.

More than half these kids don't understand anything.

The ones that do are very odd. Weirder than her, in her opinion. So she moves things with her mind sometimes. Hermione prefers that quirk over Robert Baillie's quirks. Weeks ago, he grabbed all the fish out of the aquarium, laid them out on the floor, and then made a slingshot out a rubber band and pins. He killed each one of those fish with it.

According to Brittany-before she "checked" out in the middle of the conversation- there used to be guinea pigs in the playroom housed up in little boxes. When Robert arrived, the guinea pigs disappeared.

Hermione hurt Robert today, and Dr. Lawrence was right. It hadn't been an accident. A baby bird with a limp wing loitered the playground outside, and the boy spotted it. She saw him pick it up and tug at the bad wing and then roughly grip at the good one. Hermione was unable to reach him before he got to the bird's neck and _snap!_

She'd been livid and heard a flock of birds fly high above her. She could hear their chirps. She looked up at them and then at Robert who dropped the dead bird onto the pavement. She made a wish.

No.

More like a command.

In a blink, the birds swooped down and attacked the boy, pecking him everywhere. He screamed and tried to bat them away, but there were too many, and he fell to the ground. He curled up and cupped his head with bloodied hands.

Security came to his aid as did a few nurses, the latter noticing Hermione standing a few feet away with clenched fists and focused attention. One of the women cautiously approached her and asked if she was somehow responsible. At the women's voice, Hermione had relaxed, uncurling her fingers, and the birds flew away.

The staff, Hermione now knew, feared her, too.

Callie's nurse pointedly pays Hermione no mind as she helps the despondent child. Hermione pays the same notion and removes her clothes in favor of her night clothes, a Snow White nightgown her mummy got her for Christmas. The yellow skirt is static-y and rubs uncomfortably against her legs. She pulls at the fabric and climbs into bed, shocking herself a few times.

The nurse turns off the lights and leaves. Hermione tucks into herself, _Lord of the Flies_ cradled to her chest. It won't be missed, she's sure of it.

She falls asleep waiting for Dr. Lawrence, coming to believe he had never planned to show but only wanted to scare her. However, she finds herself shaken awake by the man. She almost screams, but his hand covers her mouth, and through the darkness, she sees a finger on his lips.

"We had a deal, Hermione," he reminds her. "Get up. _Quietly_."

She complies, and he's holding her hand now, leading her out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway. They take the stairs instead of the elevator, and the pounding in her chest becomes painful. Where's he taking her? Why is he taking her?

They get to the first floor, and she sees Robert crouched next to the door, stuffing candy into his mouth with his bandaged fingers. He regards Dr. Lawrence with blatant hope and then Hermione with disdain and severe apprehension.

"What is she doing here?"

"Sh," warns Dr. Lawrence. He offers his unoccupied hand. "I hope the candy was to your liking. There will be more soon."

Robert takes the man's hand eagerly, and all three of them walk through the lobby, stopping at the security desk. Dr. Lawrence lets go of Hermione's hand, and she yells at herself to run but her feet stays put. She sees Dr. Lawrence hand over a stack of bills to the guard, and the guard smirks. A buzzing sounds makes Hermione jump, and she sees two hued bulbs above the door, one of them lit green. Dr. Lawrence fumbles for her hand and then grips it too tightly, marching both her and Robert out the door.

Her bare feet hit asphalt, and it's wet from rain. There's a chill in the air, and goosebumps spring up on her skin. The three of them come to a car, and Dr. Lawrence opens a door to the backseat. On the seat are two gigantic lollies which do nothing to ease Hermione, her parents having instilled in her that sugar be avoided.

Robert, obviously, didn't receive the same treatment. He bounds into the backseat and snatched both, not that Hermione cares. She's still got her book.

"Get in," Dr. Lawrence growls."

She feels brave now and puffs out her little chest. "Or what? You'll put me in solitary?"

He kneels, and his breath is damp on her face and smells of stale coffee and tobacco. "I'll put you in the trunk."

She stands her ground and even narrows her eyes. Maybe. Just _maybe_ she can do something to him like she did to Robert. Maybe she can make him scared. Make him _hurt_.

There's a parking lot light standing far above them, and it flickers. They both hear the thrumming _zzz_ of the electricity dip in and out. Dr. Lawrence snarls at her and wraps his fingers in her hair, yanking. His other hand smashes against her mouth to stifle her pained screams. He easily scoops her up and throws keys at Robert, ordering him to open the trunk. The boy obliges all too happily, and Hermione hears his laughter through her struggle. Even when the trunk lid slams down on her, and blackness engulfed her, she hears his manic laughter.

The drive makes Hermione nauseous, and she vomits and turns away from her own sick to get fresher air which proves impossible a few minutes later. She feels every dip, bump, and minor obstruction on the road. She curls into herself trying to get warm. She's so cold, and she wants her mum more than anything.

A thought passes through her mind, and it's one that makes her start to really cry.

And it's not even a thought really but a deep belief that she may never see her parents again. Wherever Dr. Lawrence is taking her, she very well knows it's not her home in Surrey.

After what feels like a lifetime, the car slows to a stop and through her mostly clogged nose, she smells a hint of the sea. The trunk lid pops open, and Dr. Lawrence swears at her. He grabs her by the material of her nightdress that's not soiled and lifts her out. Her feet touch wet asphalt again, and when her eyes adjust, she sees they're at a dock. Men load crates onto a cargo ship. Another man emerges from the tankard, dressed warmly in a thick, knitted black sweater and trousers. He's got a limp, but he's tall and strongly built. There's a jagged scar from his left temple to the corner of his mouth.

Hermione stands next to Dr. Lawrence, chin tucked close to her chest. Robert stands on the other side of Dr. Lawrence, and she senses his worry. He sees the ship and is thinking the same thing she is. They're going to be on it soon.

The man coming towards them rests his eyes on Robert first. "Only one. That was deal."

He sounds Eastern European. Like some of the bad guys on the telly shows her dad watches.

"The boy has potential," says Dr. Lawrence. "Good education. More than decent exam scores. _Sociopath_."

"Those are not unique." He pins Robert with an unimpressed expression. "But if you are so confident, doctor, then so be it. We'll let the superiors decide his fate. You will be paid for just the one."

"Now, see here—"

The man pulls out a gun and rests it on Dr. Lawrence's forehead. Hermione sucks his sharply and forces herself not to scream. Robert lets out a soft and uncomfortable _oh_ sound.

"You were saying?" The safety of the gun clicks.

"Nothing." Dr. Lawrence shakes his head, hands up. "I was saying nothing."

The man nods, satisfied, and holsters his gun. He slides his eyes over to Hermione. "And this is the one?"

"Yes."

"She's not much too look at."

"Who cares what she looks like? It's what she can do. Brilliant. Her IQ is well above her level. Her mind is sharp. Her emotions fluctuate, but I'm sure that can be beaten of her." Dr. Lawrence brushes something invisible off his tweed jacket. "Oh, let's not mention the telekinesis. I don't think that's even all she can do."

The man's gaze hardens on her. "Is she dangerous?"

"Yes," says Dr. Lawrence.

"Good."

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 **A/N: I'm testing the waters with this one. I've got a million other projects on my list, but I'd like to see how this fairs with you, my dear readers. Please leave a review. Tell me if you'd like me to continue and out of curiosity's sake, who in the MCU you'd like her to be romantically involved with when she's all grown up. _Or_ if you'd like her to be romantically involved with anyone.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm still taking note of people's choices on pairings for the story.**

 **Please Read and Review!**

 **Thanks and on with the story!**

 **Chapter 2: Ten Thousand Rubles**

The sun sets and brings warm, orange light to the tiny cabin she shares with Robert. She is leaning listlessly to the side, head pressed against the wall, book open. She still has _Lord of the Flies_ in her possession and can only manage to read a bit at a time. She's incredibly seasick and so is Robert. They've been on the boat for days. Hermione's seen four sunsets, and a part of looks forward to this fifth. Sunset means dinner and toilet break.

The door soon opens and one of the crew, not Alexi who Hermione met at the dock, ushers her and a weak Robert to the cantina which is just two small tables and a door leading to a kitchen. She and Robert have to share a chair which she hates. He tries to still her food—dry brown bread, canned veggies, and fish. It's hardly tasty, but like her, he's starving. They eat twice a day. Once in the morning and once at night.

The crew ignores them which Hermione wonders if she should be grateful for that or not. Robert is affronted and has tried to cause a stir with some of the men. Yesterday, he got backhanded. Tonight, his lip is still swollen, and he's not so chatty. He tries to nick her bread, so she shoves him off the chair. The men who notice laugh and speak to each other in Russian. Hermione thinks it's Russian, anyway.

"I'm hungry!" he yells, scrambling to his feet.

"So am I."

"I'm a boy! I should get more!"

"You want more?" The vegetables aren't doing anything for Hermione tonight, so she scoops them into her hand and throws it at him. "There you go, you pig!"

"Wasteful little girl," a man accuses, spitting in her direction.

Robert clenches his fists and then stalks off. "Just you wait," he says.

Her heart drops low in her stomach, and she runs after him. She knows what he's going to do. She reaches the cabin, and he throws himself on top of her book and then jumps to his feet, tearing at the cover and the pages.

"Stop! Stop, please!"

He ignores her and continues ripping the pages. Wrinkled and shorn paper litters the floor, and tears burn her vision. Hatred boils within her, and the lamp behind her flickers. With a slicing jerk of her hand, she screams, _"Stop!"_ one more time.

The bulb in the cheap lamp on dresser bursts, and Robert freezes in place. The book falls from his hand, and she covers her mouth, cautiously walking towards the boy. He's perfectly still. His eyes stare straight ahead, but she can hear his breath.

What has she done?

She looks at her hands and then at him.

"Impressive."

Hermione whips her to the doorway, and sees Alexi standing there. His girth takes up the frame, and he steps into the cabin, his shoulders hunch almost instinctively. His gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on the lamp, on her, and then settling on Robert.

"I-I don't know how to fix it," she stutters.

"Why do you want to fix it?" He's next to Robert now and places a hand close to the boy's mouth. "You did not kill him. You should."

She stumbles as far away from him as she can get without leaving the room. She shakes her head, horrified he even brought it up.

Alexi shrugs. "It'd make your journey more pleasant, no?"

Hermione says nothing, opting to turn and press her face into the neighboring corner. She hears the floorboards creak underneath, and the soft thump of his boots. He's a few feet behind her, she can sense. Something glimmers in her peripheral, and she looks out of curiosity. It's a knife.

She snaps her face back into the corner. "No," she states.

"It is a gift, small one. Don't use it against the boy if you don't want, but we still have nine more days. You may change your mind."

She says nothing and does nothing. He stares down at her impatiently and then grabs her hand, wrenching it open and placing the handle of the blade in her palm. He coaxes her to curl her fingers around it. At first, she resists and then reluctantly obliges.

The knife's not big but has a weight to it and still looks comically big in her small hands. Really? What is she going to do with this?

"I'm going to move you," expresses Alexi. "I cannot trust you will use the knife on the boy when he comes seeking petty revenge, and it's you I need to deliver. Not him."

Hermione swallows and finds her voice. "Where are you taking me?"

The man lets out a long sigh, and he offers her his hand. He wants her to take it, she thinks. She doesn't necessarily want to. He's a bad man. She knows it. He's offering comfort, though, and guidance to better protection from Robert. Her free hand slips in his, and his are rough and nicked and not at all like her father's.

But they are warm, and she's been cold since she left the institute.

Alexi walks her out of the room and down the narrow hallway. "I've delivered many children. Younger than you, even."

Something settles sickly on her chest and slithers its way down to her stomach. "Have you ever seen them again?"

"No."

"A-Am I going to die?" Her voice sounds so quiet. She can barely hear it over the sound of her erratic heartbeat.

"I think some of them have left this world, yes." He leads her down a creaky metal stairwell. "I am not reaper. Where you are going, you will need to be strong. You will not survive if you cannot bear the brute of what's to come."

He takes her into a cabin, and she thinks it's his. It's a tiny bit bigger than the one she and Robert shared. On the walls, there are shelves of books, and Alexi lets go of her hand to examine the spines of some adjacent to his bed. He rubs his scruff and then pulls one down. He offers the paperback to her, and she takes it, her curiosity momentarily overruling the heavy words he just dealt her.

She studies the front and the back, the simple illustration informing her of the incomprehensible title. "This is _Lord of the Flies_. Is this in Russian? Is that we're going? The Soviet Union?"

"Yes, and you will be taught Russian _first_."

Taught? And he speaks as if there'll be more. Is she going to school? Is this what it's all about. She's being sent to a school for children like her? Alexi said he delivered children. Were they like her?

Then what of Robert? He isn't like her at all. He's not unique just like Alexi said back at the dock in London.

"Do you just speak English, child?"

She lifts chin, feeling a moment of pride. "I speak French and Greek."

"Useless tongues, but you may pick them back up when you're older."

He lets her keep the book and takes her outside of the room, pulling at a shift in the wall and sliding to expose a bunk. Hermione catches the scent of dust and mildew but doesn't care, and there's a hanging-down bulb for light. She wasn't expecting a luxury cabin to herself. She'll be by Alexi and…not safe, but at least safe enough from Robert.

 _ **A few days later**_

Closing the book, Hemione sighs, frustrated. She can't read Russian, and yet she's bored with nothing else to do but stare at squiggles. She had finished her stolen copy of _Lord of the Flies_ before Robert destroyed it, and her parents had once told her and others proudly she had—what is it?—photographic memory. Yet, she struggles to apply her memories to what's in front of her.

She wants to sneak into Alexi's cabin and have a gander at his other books. Maybe one might not be in Russian. Gnawing her lip, she slips out of her bunk and quietly opens the door of the cabin. She finds the chain to the light and pulls, dully igniting the room.

Alexi doesn't have a load of books, she decides, and they all look to be in Russian or something similar. Except of a bible she found on his bedside table. It's in German, she thinks. There's a thick layer of dust on it, she can hardly make out the cross. She wonders why he keeps it next to him if he's not going to read it.

Hermione turns of the light and leaves the room. Alexi must be up on deck, and she doesn't want to go up there. He finally gave her clothes to stave off the chill which worsens each day. The clothes are boyish and big as are the boots, but they beat bare feet and the soiled Snow White nightdress.

In some ways, she's accepts her situation. Mostly because she's built up a fantasy for herself. She's being whisked away to a special school for special children like her. They can do all the things she does, and she'll have friends and mentors who care about her.

This is a rather _thin_ fantasy, but it helps her cope. She can't keep crying all the time, and the crewmen hate the sound of her wails. Aside from Alexi, they favor Robert over her. He doesn't cry, and he doesn't whine. Even when he's forced to help on deck sometimes. Probably because he gets extra rations for it.

The crewmen want her to help. She's not an eleven years old like Robert, but she's an able-body. Alexi forbids it. A part of her hoped in his own way, he'd come to care about her, but then she heard him tell his crew they'd be out of ten thousand rubles if she didn't make the trip.

Ten thousand.

That's how much she's worth.

Hermione climbs the stairs and hears noise from her old cabin. Robert must not be on deck, and she thinks about going back down to her bunk. She then shakes her head. No. She can't keep avoiding him. Yes, he might try something, but she has the knife Alexi insisted she keep on her. The blade is sheathed now and tucked underneath her sleeve.

She won't kill him.

She might cut him, though. She can't trust her _abilities_ will show again in a time of crisis.

The cabin door is ajar, and she almost walks passed it, pausing because she hears a strangled no coming from Robert.

"Quiet, boy!"

There's a ripping sound, like cloth being torn, and Hermione presses against the door. What she sees…she doesn't understand completely. She does know that Robert is being hurt, and Dmitri, one of the crewmen, is responsible.

"Stop it! Get off him!" she shouts.

Dmitri stills and then looks at her over his shoulder. "You're next, brat."

Hermione glares at him and unleashes a scream for Alexi, and Dmitri scrambles off Robert. He pulls up his trousers and storms towards her. Hermione runs down the hallway, but he catches up to her, pulling her hair and using it as leverage to get her in a tight, lung-crushing hold. She screams for Alexi again, and he covers her mouth, so she bites his fingers _hard_. He yanks his hand away and throws her down on the ground, her head hitting the floor. The knife in her sleeve dislodges. She hears it clatter. Black dots appear in her vision, and she feels out of sorts. She blinks and sees the knife in her peripheral.

She makes a grab for it.

Dmitri's quicker.

"No, no," he chides. He unsheathes the blade and touches a fingertip to the point. "I wonder how badly I can hurt you without killing you, little witch."

A flicker in his eyes tell her he's got a plan, and she tries to crawl away, but he's got her anchored to floor now with her sweater rucked up to display her tummy.

He carves.

She thrashes. She screams. She begs but to avail does he show mercy until he's done. Then he touches the bloodied blade to her nose and says, "To remember me by as reminder to mind your own business."

He's inches from her face, the knife between them, and on their own accord, Hermione's hand grabs Dmitri's gripped hand—the one holding the knife—and pushes. The blade lodges in his left eye, and he's the one screaming now. He stands and fumbles backwards, and Hermione sees Robert behind him. The boy walks up to Dmitri and removes a small handgun from his front pocket, aims at the back of Dmitri's head, and pulls the trigger.

The sound is deafening, and there's no more screaming.

Dmitri falls to the floor, and Hermione uses the wall for support to get to her feet. The man's blood is coming at her, and she feels so many things but not the tears running down her cheeks.

Robert steps over the body towards her, and she can't help but think she's next.

She doesn't relax when he stuffs the gun in the back of his trousers.

"You tried to stop him," he says.

She can't speak. Dmitri's body is so still.

Robert comes up to her and lifts the hem of her sweater, and she pays no mind. She saw someone die, and she doesn't think she'll be able to ever unsee it. The image of Robert blowing out Dmitri's brain is going to stick with her.

She vomits.

She turns from Robert and heaves until there's nothing. Then she dry heaves, and Robert goes to Dmitri's body and rolls him over. The knife is still lodged in his eye but much deeper than before. Without so much as batted eye-lash, he pulls the knife and uses the dead man's shirt to clean it. The sheath is on the floor, so Robert picks that up, too, and unites them both before offering it to Hermione.

She shakes her head.

"Take it," he hisses. She flinches, dropping it the moment it touches her hand. Robert exhales impatiently and picks it up, shoving the blade underneath her sleeve. "Keep this on you, okay? Dmitri wasn't the only arsehole on board into kids."

"I c-can't..."

"For God's sake, stop crying, Hermione. There's no point." He tugs her sleeve down, and she swears she sees his own eyes red and glassy. His face is dry, though, and there's no tremble of his chin.

He's stronger than her, and she's envious. He's right, there's no point in crying. No one on the ship cares about her problems. Her fears. Her wounds. They only care about the money and nothing else. They must have such sad existences, but she's jealous of them, too.

She rubs her eyes. "We should tell someone what happened."

Robert's face colors angrily. "You can. I don't owe anyone on this boat an explanation. Neither do you. Let them find him like this."

He stalks off and goes downstairs. Soon she hears voices coming from the other end of the hallway, and she follows in Robert's wake. Her feet pick up in pace when hearing the shouts and curses of shock. She returns to her tiny hovel. Not to hide but to make it look like she'd been there the whole time with her book when Alexi seeks her out. Staring blankly at the pages, she mulls over which reaction would work best, but mostly she festers and worries. She's not a good liar.

Alexi comes, and she tells him everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Two for One**

Dmitri is buried at sea.

Tension is high on the ship. Much of the crewmen want to throw Robert overboard. He's not worth ten thousand rubles, but Alexi admires Robert. There's a glint of pride in the man's eyes every time he glances in the boy's direction.

"Lawrence was right. You'll be good for them," Alexi had said at dinner the night of Dmitri's burial. Robert had beamed from the praise despite neither he nor she knowing who _them_ were.

They will make port that day at Riga. There first port had been at Denmark awhile back which Hermione wasn't allowed to leave the ship. The crewmen took turns leaving and returning with pastries in their hands and bruises on their necks, accompanied with a spring in their step. And when Hermione longingly looked upon Aarhus, she pictured herself running along the cobbled streets and pressing her face against the glass windows of the sweetshops. Staring didn't cause cavities.

Alexi feared she'd tell a grown up or a police officer her story.

His fears weren't unfounded.

She wants to go home.

The hours pass too quickly for Hermione. She finds herself on deck, shivering from the cold. There are ice chunks the ship has to dodge, but up ahead is land. Grayish black smoke rises into the sky from factories. Riga is not as pretty as Aarhus. There is a bone-deep coldness in the air, which makes everything before her appear lifeless. Should it be so cold in March? Is still March? She's not sure.

Robert appears beside her, and she tries to read his expression out of her peripheral. There's a tick in his jaw, and that's it.

"You'll have to leave the gun," she tells him.

"You'll have to leave the knife," he counters.

"Do you think," she starts hesitantly, "they'll be nice."

The foreboding _they_ that is _them_.

"No."

"Do you think we're going to die?"

His jaw ticks again, and then he's standing tall, chin out. "I'm not. You might."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm Ralph and you're Simon."

Her fingers curl and tighten around the cold metal of the railing, and she focuses her blurry gaze on Riga again. She bites back the urge to cry and tells him forcefully, "You're _Jack_."

He shrugs. "Either way, you're done for."

"They want _me_ , you know? Dr. Lawrence got rid of you because he was sick of you."

Robert grabs her by the shoulders and forces her to face him. "He got rid of me because he's scared of me. I would've lit that bloody institute on fire." He gets closer to her. "Starting it in your room."

He doesn't scare her, even though she believes him. She stands her ground, refusing to shirk from his glare. He's not going to hurt her _now_. He will die if he does. Ten thousand rubles, she's worth as opposed to the _nothing_ he is. He'll be tossed overboard before they reach port.

Alexi calls them down below deck, and they're led to a washroom neither had seen before and instructed to clean up as good as they can. There's a rectangular metal tub of steaming water on the moldy, tiled floor and a jagged chunk of soap. She and Robert haven't bathed since their arrival on the ship, and both start gravitating towards the tub which promises warmth and cleanliness.

Modesty isn't something they concern themselves with because they both insist on bathing first. They remove their clothes and tuck themselves into the tub. Hermione's fine with Robert using the soap first. It gives her time to enjoy the hot, steamy, liquid-y warmth of the water. She even dunks her wild, heavy hair into the water and cleans it with the soap when Robert hands it off to her.

Pretty soon they're both finished. Hermione dries herself off with the tiny scratchy towel folded up on the nearby bench and slips back into her clothes. They need a washing to, but that's not in the cards.

The ship comes to a stop, and they're fed lunch on the ship once last time. They each get an extra serving of fish and then Alexi comes to collect them. He holds each of their hands and escorts them off the ship. Hermione's heart is in her throat, and her chin trembles at the sight of a suited man leaning against an old but well-kept car. He's looking at her with keen interest which then fades when resting on Robert.

When the three of them reach the car, the suited man speaks in a language Hermione can't understand. It could be Russian, but she doesn't know. The man gestures to the boy, and Alexi says something, too. They argue, the suited man quite fervidly before throwing his hands up and saying, "Okay."

He opens the passenger car door and pulls out a briefcase and shoves it at Alexi who opens it, running his hands through the bills and then nodding. They shake hands.

"Good sailing, Alexi," says the man.

Alexi dips his chin and kneels before her and Robert. "Hermione, do you have your gifts."

The knife is up her sleeve, and the book is tucked in the waistband of her pants. She bobs her head up and down, sniffling.

"Robert," Alexi turns to the boy, finger pointed admonishingly, "don't give them reason to kill you. They will. Prove yourself worthy."

Robert puffs out his chest. "I will."

"Good. Now give me the gun."

The boy looks stricken and darts his eyes away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give me the gun, boy."

His shoulders sag. "You let Hermione have the knife."

"The knife's a gift. You stole the gun." Alexi holds out his hand, flexing his fingers pointedly.

"No."

"Robert," he warns. "You can't take the gun with you. My good friend Eli here will not take you to your new life if you don't give it to me. Prove yourself, boy, and in time you will be rewarded with many guns."

Grumbling, Robert removes the pistol from his waistband and gives it to Alexi who pats him on the head. "Good boy," he says and retracts to the ship.

Eli opens the backdoor. "It's no use looking at him now. He's in the past. You two will never see him again. Come, children."

The drive isn't as long as Hermione expects. Having got used to the long drawn out days on the ship, she's surprised and beside herself with fear that she's only been in the car for a little less than an hour before Eli's pointing at a structure up ahead. It's a facility of sorts, encased by a mountain and perched on a rocky hill. The building is anything but welcoming, and she shivers when Eli says, "Welcome to your new home, children."

They drive over a stone bridge, a partially frozen river beneath, and stop at a gate. There's a booth with two guards in it, and they're two guards at the gate. One of the men in the booth waves at Eli to head on through, and the gate opens.

The driveway winds halfway around the hill, and Eli drives the car inside a parking garage housing several other vehicles. Two more guards come up to the car and without preamble, open the backdoors to grab her and Robert. The boy wiggles and screams which does nothing to distract the large armored man holding him. If anything, the guard picks up his pace and darts through a wide doorway. Hermione hears his echoes bounce off the stone walls as the guard carrying her follows behind.

Unlike Robert, she doesn't put up a struggle. What would be the point, really? She's far from home. Far from the docks. She can't speak the language. She wouldn't make it to the gate before being snatched up again.

Robert's echoes fade to the point she can no longer hear him. The guard brings Hermione into another hallway, this one looking more like a hospital's corridor. A woman around her mum's age who wears a white lab coat appears from around the corner and motions to the guard.

"Bring her in here." Her accent is thick. Thicker than both Alexi's and Eli's. The guard brings her into a tiled room with a drain in the middle of the floor. There are showerheads off the left, and a chair with straps off to the right.

"She's filthy." The woman turns up her nose. "Strip her and burn those rags."

The guard pulls out a pocket knife and slices through the material like the threads are made of hot butter. Her knife and book fall to the ground, and the guard laughs picking the knife up and showing it to the amused and smirking woman.

"Give that back, it's mine." Hermione goes to reach for it, but the guard throws it across the room.

"You're only allowed a weapon if you intend to use it. Do you intend to use the knife against me and Kristof?"

Hermione quiets, shame coloring her cheeks as the guard shreds her trousers. Her boots are removed, and the woman turns on one of the showerheads, her hands testing the water.

"That will take a minute to warm. Kristof," she dips her chin at the guard and then flicks her gaze to Hermione, eyes narrowing at the child's torso, "what is that on her stomach?"

Hermione attempts to hide the healing wound Dmitri left her, but the guard grabs ahold of her hands. The woman marches up to the girl runs her cold fingertips over the wound. Hermione flinches and turns away.

"Who did this to you? Was it Alexi?"

"No."

"A part of his crew?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Do you know what it means?"

Her head shakes. Alexi never told her. Said she didn't need to worry about it.

"Ved'ma," says the woman. "You'll learn soon enough what it means. Kristof, strap her to the chair and shave her head."

"No!" cries Hermione. This time she does struggle as the guard manhandles her into the chair and fastens the straps over her forearms and legs. The woman presents to him a pair of shears and an electric shaver, and she watches unmoved as Hermione sobs a little bit harder when seeing a lock of hair hit her lap. Then when it's all over and done with, she's placed under the water. Her shaky hands run over her head, and there's nothing left but a tuff.

"Stop crying. It's only hair. It will grow back and hopefully into something much more pleasing." The woman gives her a bar of soap and a scrub brush. "Get yourself clean. The Baron is going to want to see you soon."

"The Baron?"

The woman nods. "You were a pricey investment. Do not disappointment him."

Hermione's told to sit down underneath the water stream and scrub her feet and in between her toes. The woman instructs her to clean under her arms, behind her neck, and behind her ears. She also tells her to wash her bum and between her legs.

Hermione blushes, and the woman sighs and tells the guard he can have a cigarette break. Following the shower, the woman grabs a towel and wraps Hermione it.

"There is no hiding here, child. Follow me."

"Can I have my book?" asks Hermione, gesturing to the discarded and forlorn _Lord of the Flies._

The woman purses her lips. "Can you read it?"

"One day I might."

The woman considers her and then shrugs one shoulder. "Fine."

Hermione is guided to the hallway and through a steel set of double doors. On the other side of the doors, there were at least three guards roaming the hallway, their guns at the ready. Hermione and the woman pass several doors—these doors looking more like steel traps. Each door has a number, and they stop at number six. The woman punches a code into a keypad on the wall next to the door.

"Don't bother keeping note of the code," the woman comments. "They change daily."

The steel door slides open, revealing a single made-up cot, a sink and a toilet both bolted to the wall, and a tiny desk with an attached chair. No mirror. No shelves. No carpet. The walls are white, and the lights are florescent. On the cot are folded clothing, and Hermione pads over to them. There are two pairs of trousers, one soft and light blue and the other khaki material. There are two white t-shirts, as well, one of them a bit thicker than the other. A few plain white pairs of knickers are folded up, too. At the foot of the bed are a pair of loafers and a pair of trackers, as well.

"Dress. Place the extra clothing under your bed."

The woman leaves, and Hermione sits on the bed for a little while, wanting to just do nothing for a moment. Sensory overload. Coming from a two-week boat trip to _this_ is too much to take in. When she's ready, she shirks the towel and shimmies on the underwear, khakis, and t-shirt. Despite the circumstances, she relishes the clean clothing against her clean skin.

And then she remembers her hair.

Her face crumples, and she rubs her head, wondering if she looks like a boy now.

To distract from the aching sadness and the unbearable homesickness, she puts the remnants of clothing underneath the cot and lays down with her book. She flips through the pages until the unfamiliar words become blurry, and her eyes close.

Once she wakes, she catches a waif of food. On the desk is a metal tray, and there's a bowl of reddish-pink liquid with questionable chunks. Hermione sits down on the chair and sniffs, detecting a savory scent with the slightest hint of sweet. Her belly growls, but she's unsure of the dish. Pink foods are usually associated with sugar, and that's a no no.

A slice of bread is also on her tray and looks much safer. She takes a bite and grimaces, the bitter flavor much like rye. She chokes it down with her carton of milk, which thankfully tastes like what she's used to, before testing the pink soup. With a tentative sip from her spoon, she finds the dish _okay_. In time, she could even acquire a taste for it. But for now, it's very…beet-y.

Part way through her dish, the door opens and a well-dressed man in glasses enters her room. Hermione straightens in her chair and scrambles to her feet, facing him head on. The man's eyes run up and down her form, and then he smiles warmly.

"Hello Hermione." He comes close to her and kneels, offering his palm which is clean and manicured. Nothing like Alexi's or the guards or even Dr. Lawrence's. "I'm The Baron. I am so very glad to finally meet you."

Hesitantly, she takes his hand and shakes it, biting her bottom lip nervously. The Baron uses his other hand to trace a crooked finger over her cheeks and then under chin.

"You've got a very pretty pair of eyes."

She furrows her brow. "They're only brown."

"Oh, no my dear. They're not only brown." The Baron taps her nose "Good nose. Freckly but not too much. Very nice bone structure. You'll blossom nicely, I have no doubt. Now show me your teeth."

Her mouth cinches closed, and The Baron flicks her nose ungently. "Show me."

Reluctantly, she pulls back her lips and then hurriedly closes them. The Baron chuckles and pats the side of her face. "We won't worry about those now, but you'll make good for Chelintsov's program. For now, you are mine. And Ms. Bērziņš was telling me…"

His words linger, and he lifts the hem of her shirt, and Hermione refrains from shoving his hands away. The scar's ugly. Why does he want to see it?

He pets her head and stands. "Finish your borsch. Get a good night sleep. Your evaluation begins in the morning."

To be Continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you, James Birdsong, Guest, St3phP33l, kfawcett1998, Honestly don't you two read, meldz, once upon a galaxy, Guest, and pianomouse for the reviews. I always appreciate feedback and constructive criticism.**

 **Thank you, followers and those who put this fic on their favorite list.**

 **So far for the pairing polls, our dear Steve Rogers is in the lead.**

 **Chapter 4: Lullaby**

For whatever reason, Hermione thought her evaluation meant leaving her room. On the contrary, here she sits at her desk, a thick booklet in front of her and four more at her feet. The booklets are exams. Question-heavy exams. Each booklet has five hundred questions, and she's not even halfway through when a guard comes in with a tray of breakfast. He serves what look like pancakes, and she inhales the warm scent, deeming them more potato-y than bready. On the side of the crisp potato patties are sliced apples. They're browning, so she starts on those first.

A single booklet takes her all day and into the night to finish. Hermione assumes all day. She got three square meals and by the time she's finishes, everything hurts, especially her head and hand. When she goes to bed, her sleep fitful, and she's dreaming of impossible questions with funny answers. And failure. She mostly dreams of failure.

What if she fails?

They _won't_ send her home.

Hermione takes a little comfort in the fact that she hasn't been asked to demonstrate her abilities. It means her evaluation isn't based solely on academics.

She needs to impress them. This is all about convincing them to, not simply to keep her, but keep her alive. Regardless of all the concocted fantasies she's created, there is no going home to Mum and Dad.

 _Lord of the Flies,_ she thinks. The boys did what they thought they had to in order to survive.

"I don't want to be Simon," she whispers to herself. She swipes at the pesky tear on her cheek.

She manages to fall asleep and when she wakes, the booklet she finished is gone. The remaining three are stacked on the desk next to a bowl of porridge. How does she keep sleeping through whoever is coming into her room?

The second booklet is mathematics as opposed to English. Many of the problems she comes across, she needs to write out, and there's no calculator. She's doesn't complete the booklet until the following midday because she wants to be careful. A mistake could cost her more than a reprimanding.

World history is next which she knocks out in less than a day, and the science booklet takes her a day and a half like math had.

She wakes the next morning and realizes she's been in the room for days. There's a paperback book reading _Beginner's Russian_ on her desk. She opens the book, browsing through it while downing her porridge. When she's done with her breakfast, she focuses on the words and translations until a guard comes. He's leaves the lunch tray and collects the breakfast tray. He's not there to collect her, and she sags tiredly in her chair.

It dawns on her she's in a type of solitary confinement, and she chokes on a sob. She closes the book and walks the room over and over again until she's calm enough to focus on her reading.

Hours later, she presumes, another guard comes and tells her she needs to wash and to gather her clothing. She obliges and gasps when she's out in the hallway. There's…There's other children.

"Eyes forward," snaps the guard.

Hermione jerks her attention to the large man leading her down the hallway while trying to sneakily catch glimpses of the other kids through her peripheral. This is unnecessary, she soon finds out. Once in the washroom, they're all gathered and naked under each showerhead. Boys and girls. Hermione sees their faces and everything else.

She wonders if any of them are like her. Do they have special abilities?

None of the other children look at her or each other, and Hermione sees that Robert isn't among any of them. _But,_ all the kids look no older than nine.

She wants to ask them questions. She wants to talk. She yearns for companionship and when the guards order them to towel up, so they can return to their room, tears slide down her cheeks. She clenches down a sob, refusing to make a sound.

She mustn't be weak. She must think ahead. They weren't going to keep her in the room forever. What would be the purpose for that? Spend ten thousand rubles to lock up a little girl? That doesn't make sense.

Returning to her room, there's fresh clothing and even the scent of fresh sheets and dinner on the desk. She eats, reads, and goes asleep. In the morning, she wakes because someone enters her room. It's the woman from before- Ms. Bērziņš—and Hermione clamors out of bed.

"Come, child," the woman orders.

She and Ms. Bērziņš leave the hallway and come to an elevator which moans while rising to the top floor. The door slides open, and Hermione stares wide-eyed at the professionally styled atmosphere. There's carpet and sofas and a reception desk sporting an elderly woman and three guards.

They walk passed them and down a hallway with landscape paintings. Neighboring the door they enter is a painting that makes Hermione gape. It's a…man, she thinks. A man dressed in an elite officer's uniform, and he's has a red face and hollowed out nose.

Johann Schmidt, _reads_ the golden words at the bottom of the frame.

She read about him in a book once. There was speculation he had some sort physical defect.

The author wasn't wrong.

"Stop dragging your feet," says the woman and beckons her to enter.

Hermione walks over the threshold and sees The Baron at the head of a long, shiny table. There's a plate of food in front of him and another plate of food adjacent. He's tucking into his meal, knife and fork working at his meat, and he smiles and stands. He gestures to the empty seat with the food.

"Sit, Hermione. We have much to talk about."

She cautiously goes to the chair, needing to climb onto it to sit down. Her eyes hungrily eye the full English breakfast in front of her, and she licks her lips. Her belly growls, and The Baron chuckles.

"Tuck in, my darling."

"Thank you," she replies, unravelling her utensils from the napkin to lay it on her lap.

The food is familiar. Wonderful. And hot. It's slides into her belly with ease, and she's both surprised and disappointed to see how quickly her plate becomes empty, save egg yolk smears and bread crumbs.

"Did you enjoy it?" asks The Baron.

Wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin, she nods her head. "It was delicious, thank you, Mr. Baron."

He seems pleased with her politeness and leans closer to her. "Hermione, I wanted to reward you."

"Reward me? For what?"

"You are," he begins and gets up from his chair, hands splayed, "brilliant. You are one of the most academically gifted children I've ever met. And you are so young, too, which means you are not even at your best, yet. By your exam scores alone, you are pure potential. _But_ you are not just a budding brain of brilliance, are you?"

"I can do things!" she all but shouts. Excitement and relief flood her system. She's impressed him! She's impressed The Baron, and oh, what euphoria! She claps her hands. "What do you want to see?"

He appears taken back by her behavior but then grins. "I hear you can move things with your mind."

Pride swells within her, and she clocks the vase in the middle of the table. Not all the blossoms are looking lively. "I can do more than that."

She scrunches her face in concentration at the dead, shriveled petals at the base of the vase. She extends her arm and makes a circular motion with her hand, her mind resting on how she's secured herself. She didn't fail the tests, and The Baron wants to be assured that all parts of his investment is true.

At first the petals shake and then float upwards, their color brightening and the texture becoming lush and plump as they reattach to the stem which also morphs into a more vibrant green.

"Fascinating," says The Baron. His expression is enlightened, but Hermione expects more of a reaction.

 _Fascinating?_ That's all he had to say?

"Hermione, I heard you can control animals."

"Oh," she says, chewing her lips nervously. Is that what he wants to see? She doesn't really like doing that and has only done it once…no, twice.

The Baron reaches underneath the table and places a caged bunny rabbit on the surface. Hermione hadn't even noticed it was there. Grinning, she reaches through the small gaps of the wire cage and pets the bunny's soft fur. So cute. Maybe The Baron will let her keep it. The long hours in her room wouldn't be so bad with a little friend.

The Baron lifts on one side of the cage, leaving an opening for the bunny which twitches its pink nose and then hops onto the table. All Hermione wants to do is pick up the fluffy thing and bury her face in its white and gray fur. She wants to smooth its ears and perhaps even give a quick kiss to the brow.

 ** _Twenty Minutes Later..._**

Hermione walks down the hallway leading to her room with the woman. They pass the room and go to the showers where she cleans the blood off her. Her brain shut off somewhere between leaving The Baron's office and the elevator, and she thinks it's better this way. When she can't comprehend, she can't understand. When she can't understand, she can't _feel_.

Back in her room, she puts on another pair of trousers, underwear, and a t-shirt. There are new books on her desk, and there's a note. She's to read the first chapter of each book. Her classes start the next morning.

Sitting down, she opens the first book of the stack and thinks, _I killed it._

The numbness wares off right then and there, and she breaks down. She mumbles out a mantra of apologies, even though she had no choice.

Mr. Baron is not a good man.

This is not a good place.

And she knew this. Even before she got to Riga, and she was on the boat, she knew whoever arranged to take her from England had to have been a bad man.

Mr. Baron forced her to kill the rabbit. She didn't want to. She pleaded with him. Begged. He was having none of it. He lost patience with her and brandished a gun, pressing it to the back of her head and ordering her to make the animal skewer itself on a steak knife.

She _held_ the steak knife.

After everything, he'd been pleased again, not even upset she vomited all over the carpet. He just replaced the muzzle of the gun with a patting hand and told her to _imagine_.

" _Imagine, my dear girl. Imagine the possibilities."_

Hermione could be purposefully naïve when it suited her, but she's not dumb. He's going to use her. He's going to want her to do something like that again.

She _knows_ she'll be lucky if it's an animal next time.

She can't let this happen. She can't!

The Baron and Ms. Bērziņš talked after what he made her do. He dislikes how _emotional_ she is. How _caring_ for the unnecessary she is. She has potential, but he fears she's too old, and she'll take longer to mold.

 _Mold_.

He used that word, and she thinks she knows what he means.

" _She's not too old to be cleaned,"_ said The Baron.

Ms. Bērziņš had raised her brows. _"She'd be the youngest to sit in that chair."_

" _Do it_." The Baron's eyes rested on Hermione. _"She's not like most children here. She's not an orphan. She's got parents and remembers them. Make her forget."_

Hermione reaches down beneath her desk. It's an old, rickety thing, and she noticed a couple of days a loose screw on the metal bar below the seat. She removes it and stares at the tip. It's not as she'd like, but it'll do. She looks down at her body, deciding where and what she wants to carve.

It's her turn to carve something.

She knows she can't put her initials or her parents'.

She thinks of her mum and dad, and she misses them so much. What she misses the most besides from the obvious…

She misses how they'd read to her at night, lulling her to sleep with fairy tales.

Fairy tales.

Snow White was her favorite.

She sits lays out the towel and sits down, narrowing her vision on her left forearm. She presses the tip to her skin and then backs off, hastily grabbing a sock. She chomps the waded material between her teeth and continues, digging the screw into her skin. The tip is dull, and what she's doing is beyond effort. It's dedication.

Blood springs up and dribbles on the towel.

 _Scar,_ she thinks furiously. _Scar, scar, scar, scar, scar and never fade. Never hide_.

Lazy, dark gray tendrils pour from her working hand and sets into the wound, making it flicker. The pain amplifies, but her fire is fueled. There's no stopping now, and soon she's done. She manages to slash a section of the towel to wrap around her forearm, tying it tightly. She bled quite a bit, and her head is woozy.

She folds the towel as neatly as she can, setting it on the tank of the toilet before settling on the bed and falling asleep. Her last thought is a hope more than a passing fancy. She hopes her scar will lead her home when she forgets who she is.

As she falls into a deep but troubled sleep, red stinging wetness seeping through the white towel, creating a shape.

An apple.

 ** _The Next Morning..._**

At the sound of gibberish echoing off the walls in her quarters, Hermione jolts awake. Her heart pounds, and she wraps her head around the sound of an intercom in her room shouting phrases in different languages. It gets to French before English, the voice stating to put on her trackers and go the door. She scrambles off the bed, yanking her make-shift bandage off her arm and hurriedly scrubbing the wound at the sink. It's not bleeding, but the wound is deep and puffy on the edges. She dives for her trackers underneath the bed and shoves them on and hurries to the door which instantly opens. At the threshold, she sees the other children at theirs. Some are jumping up and down. Some are stretching. One is yawning. All their faces are pink and flush from sleep, too.

A horn sound echoes in her room and inside the hallway, and the children take off running. It takes a moment for Hermione to realize she should probably join them and picks up her feet. She follows the children down the hallway into the hospital-like corridor and down the tunnel where she first came. They pass the parked military vehicles and go outside where it's _freezing_. Snow falls from the dawning sky and the asphalt is slick and, unsurprisingly, she falls and scrapes her knee, tearing a hole in her trousers. The graze stings, but it takes her mind off her burning lungs and the deep pinch in her side. With falling and never having run since she was probably two, she falls behind.

The group of kids are getting farther and farther away from her, and she struggles to keep up. Her legs scream at her to walk or rest as does her lungs, but her head tells her to clench her teeth and trudge through the pain. They run around the facility ten times, during which, Hermione vomits, and when they return inside and go directly to the showers, she's hobbling behind. Half the children are already undressed and under the showerheads while the other half are wrapping themselves in towels and scurrying off to their quarters. Hermione removes her dirty clothes and places them in the hamper. She turns on a showerhead and waits for the water to heat. A girl next to her, dips her chin. She's Asian with the short black hair. Very short. Like it's growing out a buzzcut. Now that Hermione notices, all the girls' hair are on the short side. None of them have hair passed their shoulders.

"Hi," Hermione tries.

"I was slow, too. You'll get faster," says the girl, and Hermione couldn't place her accent.

"Where are you from?" The girl shrugs.

"South Korea, I think."

"You think?"

"It's been too long. I can't remember for sure, but I lived in Paris before I came here. You're English."

Hermione nods.

"How old are you?"

"Seven. I'll be eight in September. You?"

"Just turned seven. Soap?" The girl offers the plain white chunk of sudsy ivory soap. "What happened to your arm?"

Hermione takes it, avoiding the question by asking, "How long have you been here?"

"Almost a year." The girl puts herself completely under the water, rinsing off the foam from the soap. "Why are you here? Is it because you're brilliant or something else?"

"Something else?" Hermione's going to play dumb because her gut is telling her to.

"The twins over there," the girl nudges her head at the two boys at the opposite shower wall, "are strong. _Really_ strong. They've been here the longest and know nothing else which is probably why they've never escaped."

Setting the soap on the shelf, Hermione rinses and turns of the shower. "Interesting," she manages. "I guess I'm really smart."

"Me, too." The girl kind of smiles, but it comes out more like a grimace, and there's something off about her that Hermione can't put her finger on.

"What's your name, anyway?"

"They haven't given me one yet."

"What?" Hermione frowns, and they both fetch their towels and wrap themselves up in them.

"You're nameless here. You don't get one until they say so."

"They?"

"Our teachers and The Baron. I've heard from others most don't get theirs until they graduate."

"I've met The Baron. He called me by my name," disputed Hermione.

"He does when you first meet him, but afterwards, you're just a sheep in the flock with a number. I'm 54."

"I'm…I guess don't know yet."

There's a different set of clothing on her bed when she gets back to her room—black trousers, the same light-weight material as the khakis, and a gray t-shirt with a number on the front and back. She is 17. She puts on the clothing, her loafers, and brushes her teeth before putting in several minutes of reading when the intercom goes off again, alerting her of breakfast time. The doors will open in five minutes, and Hermione realizes the week contained in her room is up. She passed the _preliminaries_. It's time to join the flock.

The door opens and she and the other children are herded to a part of the facility she hasn't seen. The cafeteria. Hermione almost loses her footing at the sight of everyone at the tables. Kids, ranging from five to seventeen, stand in line, metal trays clutched in their hands. All together, there are probably fifty kids. The line to get her porridge and fruit is long, so Hermione surveys the population and sees each age group decreasing in number the older it is. There are only three seventeen-year-old kids and ten five-year-old kids. In the masses, she sees Robert who's sporting the number 48 and a buzzcut. He sees her, and she barely turns up the left corner of her mouth. He vaguely lifts his fingers at her in a milquetoast wave, and she can't help but be a tiny bit proud of him despite the circumstances. He looks to have passed his preliminaries, too, and the buzzcut must be part of the initiation process. His fellow peers don't share the close-cropped do.

The porridge is lukewarm and the apple slices a tad brown, but she's fed and ordered to go to "school". School consists of sitting at a desk with her fellow group for six hours—lunch after hour three. There is a seventh hour, but it's not really academic, and it doesn't last for an hour but _three_.

Physical Education is putting it mildly.

Jumping jacks, sit-ups, push-ups, chair-dips, lunges, and burpees. Reps and reps of these to do and when finished, there's the climbing-rope and an obstacle course. The next two hours are dedicated for tumbling, Kung Fu, and stretching. When she returns to her room, on the desk is—what takes her a few minutes to realize—a dissembled gun, a time clock set for one minute, and a track-keeping chart. There are no instructions on how to assemble the gun. She's still fiddling with the magazine when the timer goes off. According to the chart, she must repeat three times. By the third try, she's got the slide in the barrel because it looks like they could go together…potentially. She's _way_ out of her element with this. Never in her life has she seen a gun assembled. Not even on the telly or in movies.

She's exhausted and achy from _everything_ , but she still has to, what 54 called earlier during stretching, _dinner and a movie_. Despite her activities, she's not all that hungry, but she's curious about the movie. She supposes turning off her brain for a little while will be all right.

It isn't _that_ kind of movie.

There's a theatre in the facility, and all the children are required to attend the nightly showings of propaganda reels for HYDRA. HYDRA? Each day, Hermione has a repeat of running, showering, breakfast, school, and physical education, then _dinner and a movie_. There are multiple films, but she's watched them all by week two. After that, they start over. Every film ends the same. It shows a lovely teenage girl and a handsome teenage boy dressed smartly. They salute the audience with both arms up and shout _Hail HYDRA!_ The audience in turn, salutes back. Hermione does it to comply. Even with the movies, she's still not yet sure what HYDRA is. The teachers and guards line the walkways, so she goes along. 54 on the other hand, shouts the phrase reverently as do the twins.

 ** _A Month Later..._**

A month passes since she first arrived and she's summoned to The Baron's office again, this time after the nightly film. He smiles expectantly at her and calls her 17. "Hello, 17. Are you enjoying your stay so far?" She nods. She's not stupid as to say anything else like that she thinks she hates him, and he's a bad man in charge of this horrible place. She wants to scream at him. She wants to hurt him like he made her hurt that poor rabbit.

Her chest tightens at the image of forcing him to run himself through a knife. Well…she doesn't want him to hurt that bad, maybe. But she does want him to understand force is a terrible thing. Something inside Hermione's head clicked, and she now understood what the reels were about now. No, The Baron wouldn't understand, would he?

"17, I haven't heard any incidents from you," he tells her. "Aside from always coming in last at the morning run and having yet to assemble the pistol, you haven't shown any opposition. Nor have you been reported in using your talents _at all_. I dare say, I'm almost disappointed. Why don't you use them?"

"I…I didn't know you wanted me to, sir,"

"Mmm, yes. It wouldn't be fair to many of the others. Do you practice in your room?" She shakes her head no.

He sighs narrows his eyes, and she sees him zeroing in on her arm. He gets in her space and crouches down, yanking her arm close to his face. "What is this?"

Hermione says nothing, and he drops her arm. "I've consulted with Ms. Bērziņš on a procedure we think would be of benefit to both of us. Follow me." Oh, she really doesn't want to. She recalls him discussing _the chair_ with Ms. Bērziņš, and anxiety eats away at her as she shuffles behind him. She bites her lips to keep from crying, and she fantasizes escaping. She imagines being able to make The Baron let her go, to even directly hand her over to her parents. She wonders if she'll ever be able to be that powerful to control someone. Not that she wants to. Animals aren't too hard, but people are different.

They take the elevator down to basement and take a short tunnel to a chamber with machinery connected to a chair. Ms. Bērziņš is there waiting for them, a guard right beside. "Put her in the chair," she orders, flicking switches on the machinery. Hermione hears whirling and electrical sounds, and she's afraid. She wants to kick and scratch at the guard, but her limbs refuse to do anything. She's placed in the chair, and her arms are strapped down as are her legs. The guard shoves a bit into her mouth and while he walks away, Ms. Bērziņš appears with sticky pads attached to wires.

"You are so young. We don't need to give you the full treatment."

Hermione closes her eyes, a lone tear slipping down her face. She thinks of her mum's voice and her dad's laugh. In her mind, she goes back to her bed in Surrey. After her bedtime story, her mum sings in her native tongue and pets her head and caresses her cheeks, each stroke loving and patient.

 _Nani nani to pedhi_  
 _Oso na 'pokimithi_  
 _Oso na 'rthi i mana tou_

The whirring sound from the machine attempts to cut through Hermione's safe place in her mind. She concentrates harder.

 _Na tou feri louloudha_  
 _Ore na tou feri loulou—_

A thousand million sharp pin pricks hit her skull and flood into her brain, billowing into a blossom of pure torture. Her mother's voice is silenced.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: See if you can spot any references to a future place, a future character, and future thing in the chapter. ;) Please read and review. Still taking in pairing requests, and I will be adding on to the warning that's in the first chapter, so feel free to brush up on that if you want.

Thanks a bunch, my honey bunches of oats!

Enjoy!

 **Chapter 5: The Soldier**

 ** _Late 1990_**

The Baron pours his guest a glass of Scotch from his private collection. His guest sits at the desk, and he schools his features as to not show anxiety in the woman's presence. She's a severe-looking middle-aged woman with coal black eyes and unnervingly rich black hair. There's a solid gray streak standing abstract from the rest of the tresses. Her nails are long, manicured but plain. Her nose a bit too pointed, and her jaw to angular for her to be pretty. In all honesty, she's rather unfortunate to behold. Pale skin and cinched thin mouth, pupils blown to wide for no reason at all.

Still…The Baron smiles and offers her the glass, and she wordlessly gestures at him to put it on the desk. He grabs and a coaster and obliges. "I don't want to rush you, but let's discuss who you're leaning towards—"

"I'm here for both."

He casually sips at his own glass, masking his insecurity. "One is mine."

"They don't belong to you or _here_."

"You can have 54," he tells her.

The woman stares blankly at him. "I'm here to collect the _two._ Soo-jin and Hermione."

He massages his chin, sitting down behind his desk. "Madam Bogdanov , I've invested too much into these girls. There's no way I'm giving you both."

Madam Bogdanov pulls out a long, polished wooden stick from her thick winter cloak. "I think I can persuade you."

Palming the handle of his Barretta holstered underneath his desk, he considers his options and knows what to say to shake her. "17 is not _half_."

The woman's terrifying eyes narrow. "You mean…she is filth?"

"54's mother was a Squib. A prostitute, but her father is Pure from what my contacts say."

She turns up her nose. "Daughter of a whore is better than filth." She leans forward in her chair, slitting her eyelids. "Still, I have orders to bring two, _but_ the ministry will not be so adamant when I tell them Hermione's blood is no good. They may even turn a blind eye."

The Baron feel something invisible pressing against his frontal lobe. "Whatever you're doing, _stop._ "

"Such ambitions, Wolfgang." Her thin mouth forms a worried line.

He ignores her. "When should I have 54 ready for you?"

She shakes her head. "Do not make me regret anything. If you weaponize the girl, don't count on being able to control her. However, _if_ she's turns into a real problem, she'll threat to _my kind_."

The Baron considers her words and then sips at his own drink. "I know where you heart is. You're curious. Your kind is impressive but held back," he eyes her polished stick, "in many ways. You're interested in the possibility without those limitations and what better test subject than—what did you say?—filth. Because if I fail and damage her beyond repair, well, it will be no loss on your part."

The woman drums her fingernails on the side of the glass. "Arrange a few meeting with Soo-jin for me. It's likely best I gain her trust before I take her next fall."

Dipping his chin, he goes to respond when there's a knock on his door. Ms. Bērziņš comes in, and he's about to chastise her when she says, "Josef is here. Shall I make the call?"

He gets up from his chair, button his suit. "Will do, Madam Bogdanov. This Friday. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few matters to take care of. I trust you can see yourself out."

 _ **A Week Later**_

17 watches from the railings above, legs dangling over the edge. She's supposed to be in her quarters, but 54, 25, 82, 38, and 39 talked her into staying behind to see him. They got word from the one of the older kids of _his_ arrival.

The Winter Soldier.

Speaking of…a few of the older kids show up, including 48 who flicks 54's ear, so she'll move. He sits between her and 17, and smirks when the Winter Soldier lands a solid blow to Josef's chest. Josef was once a student here but graduated several years prior, so he could deeply wedge himself into MI-6.

"He's been accepted into the Winter Soldier program," whispers 48. "It's why they're both here. Josef's going to Siberia after this."

"But he lost," 17 replies.

48 shrugs. "He's the best."

There's a tone to his voice that 17 catches. "You're jealous." She smiles a little bit. "You want to be a Winter Soldier."

The fifteen-year-old boy shrugs again. "They say my future's S.H.I.E.L.D." He pauses. "I'm also graduating in a month."

17 tears her eyes away from the duel, her heart sinking a little. "So soon?"

"I only know they're sending me to the States. I'll be put in with a family loyal to HYDRA. Then they're putting me in operations at S.H.I.E.L.D's academy after a stint in the Marines."

He's probably not supposed to be telling her this, but she reckons he wants to both impress her and obtain her sympathy. She chews on her lips and focuses on the Soldier and Josef. The latter is on his feet again, ready to take another beating.

"I'm leaving for Moscow in three months," she divulges. "The Baron got me into Chelintsov's program."

"The Baron got _you_ into the KGB?" hisses 54. "You and all your headaches. You'll be a liability."

"The Baron wanted me to be a part of it when he first met me," argues 17.

"Funny," clips 54. "He said the same thing to me." She jerks and rolls one shoulder. "Whatever, though. I'm graduating, _too._ At the end of next summer."

"Just deal with the fact that 17 is prettier than you." 48 chuckles and 17 punches him in the arm while 54 slaps him upside the head.

That's untrue. 54 is much prettier, _and_ she's better at tumbling and martial arts.17 wonders why The Baron chose her when he's been nothing but short with her lately. And not that she can blame him. Her abilities have mellowed. It's harder—no—taxing for her to even do the most menial of things like make a ball bounce on its own. She used to be able to assemble a Beretta without touching it.

 _And_ she used to be able to turn a pencil into a pen and her milk into tea.

She _feels_ the energy in her blood, in her bones, but it's not coming out so eagerly anymore. The energy thrums impatiently under her skin but can do nothing but fizzle out little by little.

"Do you think," starts 48, "we'll see each other again after you leave?"

"I don't know," she says softly. "The Baron never mentioned me being a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. He says once I'm all sorted—whatever that means—I'll be unstoppable."

54 snorts, and 48 gives 17 a considering look, and she knows he's recalling the institute from whence they came and the ship they sailed to get here. Or so she thinks. She only knows about them because he told her, and she thinks she might remember a playroom with books. She doesn't remember a whole lot of the ship. Her scar on her stomach itches. She scratches at her skin and looks down at her tummy and then at the scar on her arm. The apple. Choppy memories of her mum and dad flow in, stream flooding into a river.

She sighs.

Her name is Hermione Jean Granger. She was born in England. Her parents' names are Daniel and Helena. They read fairy tales to her at bedtime, and her mum would sing Greek lullabies to her, too. They institutionalized her where a crooked doctor worked, and now she's here. Hermione rubs her forehead, exhaling softly. The Baron will put her in the chair again _at least_ twice, maybe three times, before she leaves for Moscow. The memories will be hers again for a short time.

"You will be," says 48 after a while. His throat bobs, and he nods. "You will be." He cracks a smirk."I bet you'll even be able to take down the Winter Soldier."

The Winter Soldier throws Josef across the room like he's nothing but a bag of feathers. It's Hermione's turn to snort. "Yeah, all right."

Maybe if she thinks _real hard_ , she'll toss a pen at him with her mind and not cry due to a migraine.

Josef isn't getting back up again for another row anytime soon, so the Soldier awaits patiently for further instructions, and Hermione's unable to see the appeal in the program. Sure, a Winter Soldier is the elite, the ultimate warrior and fighting machine, but trained dog comes to mind, too.

 _They're going to do that to you,_ a voice tells her. _They_ are _doing it to you._

Her fingers curl tightly on the bars of the railing, and the Winter Soldier looks up at her and her peers. He doesn't say anything nor does he bring any attention to them. He simply stares at them with his blue eyes, and Hermione thinks they're a pretty set. He's not unattractive, but his mangled brown mop is.

"Hey, Soldier," hackles 48 rather bravely—stupidly is more like it. "My friend 17 is going to kick your arse some day!"

Hermione and the other kids hop to their feet, her eyes meeting the Soldier's briefly before she takes off running, the other kids close behind.

"Hey, what are you kids doing up there?" yells a guard, but they're soon out of sight and are down the hallway, darting to the stairwell and practically throwing themselves down it.

48 is laughing hard, tears of mirth slipping down his purpling face. He slows at the next landing, catching her by the shirt and forcing her into the corner as the rest of the kids continue downwards. Her head hits the wall, and she glares up at him. For someone so smart, he sure is stupid sometimes.

"I see why The Baron is sending you on the other side of the world," she tells him.

"Hey, if he's that displeased with me, I'd be dead."

"You annoy him/"

"Alexander Pierce was down there. Did you see him? He's deep in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the council's none the wiser. He might even be CEO one day. He's going to be my boss. I had to make a first impression."

"By being an imbecile?"

"I didn't say a _good_ first impression." She can't help herself. She has to chuckle at that. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Hm?"

"Do you think we'll see each other again?"

"Oh. Well," she gets out the corner and starts down the stairs, "I don't know. Probably not."

48 takes a moment and then joins her down the stairwell. "Will you miss me?"

She turns to face him, her expression serious. "I don't recognize you right away after treatment, you know. I'm getting two before I leave for Moscow. If we do see each other again, too much time will have probably gone by. The name Robert or 48 will mean nothing to me."

"Maybe Brock will."

She glances at him curiously. "You got your name."

48 nods. "Do you think you'll get yours before Moscow? You can't be 17 there. That'd be weird."

Hermione stops at the landing. "I'm afraid."

"Of going to Moscow? Psht! It's just like this hellhole but everyone's wearing tights."

"I'm afraid I'll forget who I am. Forever."

After a heavy pause, 48 says, "If it's for the best, then it's for the best."

He's right. The Baron. HYDRA knows best. Still. "You get to remember."

"My memories don't affect me like yours do."

"Don't you miss your parents?"

A wave of anger washes over 48's features, and he clenches his fist. "I told you about them, remember?"

"Really?" She frowns.

"Right." He sounds exasperated. "You _forgot_."

She digs through her memories and remembers he's an orphan. Parents dead when he was nine and lived with his devoutly religious uncle and family for a year before the institute.

"You shouldn't miss yours. They locked you away and forgot about you. HYDRA is our real family, 17." He stands tall and raises his arms in a formal salute. "Hail HYDRA!"

She dips her chin curtly at him. "Hail HYDRA."

She watches him go through the door to his level and then she takes the next level down to hers. The guard on duty gives her knuckles a wrap for breaking curfew and then escorts her to her room. As she tucks herself into bed, she thinks of the small things she's acquired during her stay. Mostly books she's swiped from the book cellar no one will miss. Maybe some of them will she be able to take with her to Moscow. _Lord of the Flies_ will definitely making the trip.

It's odd thinking about how she's graduating already at eleven years old. Graduating from this particular program of HYDRA's is nothing like traditional primary and secondary schooling. Sure, some graduate at seventeen or eighteen years old, but there are those who are considered for jobs early on, like herself and Robert. She feels bad for him. He could easily stay on for another two or three years, but The Baron clearly has grown fed up with him. Robert's brilliant but his animosity and aggression wears down the mentors. At the same time, he's too much of an asset to lose. He's found purpose in HYDRA and is unwaveringly loyal to it which is likely why he hasn't been eliminated. Hermione doesn't consider herself disloyal to HYDRA. Her peers, her mentors are her family. She worries, though. She knows herself, and she worries she'll sway while away from them. What if the KGB is better?

She squeezes her eyes shut, cursing herself. She can't think things like that. She can't allow herself to go native. She is HYDRA, and she must not forget. She must also not forget what The Baron promised her.

" _After graduating from Chelintsov's program, you will be sanctioned a week's leave. You will return home and during that time, I will do whatever necessary to ensure you are able to freely use your abilities without strain."_

The constant headaches are exhausting, and it'd be nice to get rid of them and to just _be_. Unfortunately, even being in Moscow won't relieve her from someone demanding her to perform this or that trick. Chelintsov and the teachers will know she can get a scarily accurate read on people which is true, thus, why she's being coerced into the KGB at such a young age by a _private party_ loyal to Mother Russia.

The whole truth, however, is she can read minds. Or, better yet, she can _see_ them. Fears, desires, memories that which begat those. They are all hers for the taking. But bloody hell if it her head doesn't hurt after taking a gander in someone's cranium.

That night, she dreams of being limitless and pain-free.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey, yall! Bucky/Hermione is gaining speed. And in this chapter, she gets a new name. It, sadly, won't be Russian. :( I know it will take some time to get used to. You'll probably hate it, but I _promise_ , in time, she'll call herself Hermione Effing Granger again. Gosh, I'm sickening myself, too, you know? This whole HYDRA! Hermione is tough for me. She's precious, and I'm making her do things again she wouldn't normally do, only I think this is worse. :/ **

**The review about about her absence in Harry's life and that will influence his world. Sadly, we will not get to find that out until later. We'll also see how she "settles" as she develops with wandless magic.**

 **And...brace yourself for the next chapter. A familiar face may pop up. ;)**

 **Enjoy the chapter and please review. I'm grateful to those who have and have given this fic a shot. It's an odd one, I know.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: The Enemies We Make**

Dreams of being pain-free and limitless are cut short one night, a week before 17's departure. She's sound asleep on her cot when weight falls on her. Hands no bigger than her own wrap around her neck and squeeze. There's a crushing pressure on her ribcage. In the dark, 17 makes out 54's figure.

 _Traitor!_

Air is becomes an issue, as in, 17 needs it _bad_. Her lungs burn, and she scratches at 54's hands and arms and tries to buck her off. The other girl's hands tighten.

"You," begins 54 in shallow, disgusted breath, "are weak. You don't deserve The Baron's attention. You don't deserve to go to Moscow. He's going to send me _away_ , and it's not because I'm graduating. But if you die…"

Energy pulses under 17's skin, and she curls her fogging mind around it, amplifying it, forcing it to explode. The release throws 54 off her and causes her to hit the wall. 54 lets out a surprised yell and moan of pain before falling to the floor. 17 hops off the bed and runs to the light switch to flip it. In the light, she sees 54 get to her feet, dark eyes wide but not because of fear but shock. Her body tenses in defense, and 17 mimics the pose.

"How did you do that?" asks 54.

"Leave," 17 tells her. "The guards will show up soon, and I _will_ tell them what you did."

"You will anyway." She shrugs. "But you're not the only one can do tricks."

54 extends her arms and flexes her fingers, and 17 lifts from the floor and catapulted to the other side of the room. It's her turn to hit the wall, and she forces her body to take the blow on the side instead of the head. Her ribs smart, and the wind is knocked out of her, but she's on her feet, adrenaline pumping.

The light flickers in and out above them, and 17 flicks her gaze at them for just a moment.

"We're the same," she tells the girl. "You shouldn't be fighting me, 54. I'm all you have in the world. There's no one else like us."

The girl she once called a friend _laughs_. "You are _nothing_ like me. I'm stronger. I don't get headaches when I have to elevate a bloody pencil."

"Probably because The Baron doesn't overuse you," snaps 17. "You should be relieved."

"How can I be? You're taking my dream! My purpose! And I refuse to step down and watch you embarrass and likely _expose_ HYDRA with your weaknesses."

 _Oh!_ Hurt, sharp and treacherous, hits 17 in the gut. Had 54 really ever been her friend? It seems naïve of 17 to even think she could have a genuine, trusting relation with anyone of the kids aside from 48.

And hadn't 48 warned her about 54 once? She can't remember, but she thinks he had.

The sound of the guards are heard from outside in the hallway. 54 glares at the open door and jerks her arm, the door slamming shut. She stands tall and stares down 17 head on.

"There's only one of us getting out of this room alive."

17 frowns and glances at the door, the handle jiggling. She hears the men shouting outside. "They'll be able to get through. They're not reinforced steel like the ones down on the first floor."

54 grins. "What does The Baron have you do in all those sessions? Still having you butcher animals and read a guard's mind here and there? You're weak and _wasted_. Those guards aren't getting through my barricade," she taps her temple, "of my own design."

The light dips. "You'll short circuit the wiring," says 17. "Even if I die, you'll be stuck in here because the door is rigged to—"

She's cut short when a force hits her in the chest and sends her colliding with the wall. The back of her skull hits the white brick and has her seeing stars. Her vision blurs, and she hears shots fired at banging at the door. She pictures the lock on it and twists, a dull throb blooming behind her forehead.

The door doesn't open.

"I didn't just lock the door, idiot. I told you," 54 hisses. "I barricaded us in."

Her former friend is really looking for a fight, 17 thinks. This isn't some school yard quarrel at the obstacle course or dueling at practice. 54 really _believes_ , and 17 can't help but be envious. She loyal to HYDRA, yes, but she can't see herself launching a vendetta on a peer because she finds them undeserving of their position. The program is competitive, and all the mentors have favorites. 38 and 39 are dumb as slugs, but Mr. Wallenberg adores them. It's just how things are. The world's not fair, and everyone's got an agenda.

"Even if you kill me, you won't go to Moscow. You'll be punished."

"48 wasn't punished when he killed 3 and 12."

"Because it was self-defense." 17 juts out her chin. "Are you really sure you want to go there?"

"I'm not going to lose, 17. I'm stronger and faster than you in every way."

"You may be right," she says softly. The energetic thrum returns to buzz underneath her skin. She channels it to the front of her brain and to the tips of her fingers. "But I guess I'll have to learn to find out if that's true since you're giving me no other alternative."

17 watches 54 clench her entire body, the girl ready to strike but 17 doesn't hesitate. She shoots her energy across the room and forces it into 54's skull, taking a tour. Over the rumble of and rush of images, 17 vaguely hears the girl scream in agony. This is a…painful thing. For both of them. But 17 can't help but feel pleased. 54 should know hurt like she does.

Inside 54, 17 sees hazy images of a beautiful woman with a soft, China-doll bone structure but cruel, impatient eyes. The woman shouts in Korean, her tone blameful, and grabs at 54. The image fades at they're at a doorstep in the rain. The woman, 54's mother, pounds on the door. Soon the barrier opens to reveal a stricken but handsome man with fluffy brown hair and light blue eyes. His attire is peculiar, and his expression is fearful as he looks from the woman to child.

"Hyun-sook, what you are you doing here?" he says in French. "If my wife if she sees you and the girl..."

"Where is my fucking my money, Andre?!"

The man breaks out in a sweat. "It's not a good time and funds have been tight with Michel being born—"

"Funds!" shrieks Hyun-sook. "I spent the last of mine getting here, and I promised I would go to the papers and expose you. Not just about us but about _everything_. I know your ties to that retched Lestrange family and that movement happening. I'll go to the papers. I'll tear your whole life apart if you don't give me my money!" There's a crack in her voice. "I-I've been offered money for her, you know. By _them_. There are people that would love to get their hands on someone like her."

"My father's cut me off! He found out about…" He looks at 54 with anxiety.

54's mother sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes narrow and pensive. "Well, then. I clearly knocked on the wrong man's door. Apologies."

She turns, and 17 feels 54's her arm smart at the woman's yank. They make it several feet when a green flash hits the peripheral, and the woman is face-down on the cobblestone, her body unmoving and stiff. Her face is turned to the side and her dark eyes are open and abruptly lifeless.

"Mama!" shouts 54 in Korean and suddenly she's picked up by Andre who's running down the street. Everything blurs and it feels like 17 is on a horrible roller coaster. When she's put down, it's more like a shake off, and she's on a grassy hill overlooking a tiny neighborhood. In the distance, there's a city.

Andre stares down at 54, a stick in hand and then takes off in a sprint. 54 watches after him, crying, and sees him _disappear._

17 pulls out of 54's head and sees she's in the dark. The light must've blown, and she hears the sound of a strangled but soft sob. Her eyes adjust and see 54 is on her hands and knees, shaking. The door flies open and light from the hallway floods into the room. Three guards come crashing in, their boots hitting the floor and cracking the broken glass.

"What happened here?" one of them growls.

* * *

17 meets with The Baron after 54. He takes a visual survey of her, taking in her ruffled appearance. From her blood-crusted nose to her bruised throat, to the blood stains on her nightshirt. He massages his jaw and then hands her damp cloth which she accepts it gratefully, wiping her nose.

"How deep did you go this time?" he inquires.

"Sir," she begins, unsure, "I think…I can do more than just read minds and move things. 54 set up an invisible forcefield with her mind. With enough practice, I could probably do that, too. But not even that, I think I could damage someone."

"You threw 54 against the wall…"

"I think I can cause brain damage."

The Baron is quiet.

"When I entered her mind, I did it slowly as to find the worst memory to throw at her. Doing so, I felt her brain matter, her neurons firing. Her cells. Her life. They were so tangible to me. I could've killed her." She presses her lips together and then asks, "Should I have?"

He kneels and brushes his thumb over her throat. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was your decision to make, but I do hope you show more prejudice in the future. Not all of your opponents will be eleven-year-old girls."

"What's going to happen to her?"

"Isolation chamber, most likely."

"Sir." She sighs. "I can't help but think she's right. About her being stronger than me. More skilled. Are you sure it's me you want in Moscow?"

He considers her for a moment. "Truthfully?"

She nods.

"Up until recently, it was going to be her, but other matters came into place. _However_ , child, I'm astounded at what you discovered about yourself and how you pushed through beyond the pain. You stopped focusing on your own weaknesses and dedicated yourself onto your opponent's. I have no doubt you will do wonders for us whilst in the heart of Russian Intelligence."

"Thank you, sir," she says and then puffs up her chest. "Another thing?"

"What?" He's impatient now.

"Her memories. There was a part I couldn't make sense of—"

"Did it involve 54's parents?"

17 dipped her chin. "I saw…it was like there was bit missing."

"How so?"

"After her mother died, her father grabbed her and then…a blur, and they were likely miles and miles away from where they first were."

A sigh escapes The Baron. "Keep in mind, 54 was likely three when this took place. Time perceived isn't always sensical to small children."

"It wasn't that kind of blur, sir." 17 steps forward confidently. Yes, there were things in 54's memory that were obviously odd given the young eyes that had perceived them. The out of place green light for instance. "The sensation was _physical_. I think…I' mean, there are theories out there about teleportation. I'm almost certain that's what happened—"

"Forget what you saw if you're going to be—"

" _Listen to me,"_ she hissed, clenching her fist and daring another step, ignoring the anger painted on The Baron's face. "I'm trying to tell you that I can do that."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Not _now_ but someday." She's silenced him, so she continues to elaborate. "54 and I are alike. We can do much of the same things. I think what she got, she inherited from her father. He killed her mother without even touching her, _and_ he teleported her far away from the scene and disappeared into nothing. One day, 54 will likely be able to do the same, and if she can, so can I."

In the time she's known The Baron, 17 is fascinated by what impresses him and what doesn't when it comes to her abilities. This is one of those times where he's definitely not curious, and she can't fathom why. Teleportation would be an incredible and powerful thing to behold.

The Baron says nothing but pats her on the head. "Return to your quarters."

"Sir—"

"That is an order."

17 returns back to her room, uncaring she likely not sleep for the rest of the night. She grabs her day clothes and heads to the showers and gets ready for the day before heading to the books cellar. Later, her peers ask about her bruises which she nonchalantly replies that 54 tried to kill her. None of them seemed surprised except 48 who looks a bit upset.

 _Why?_

Oh, yeah. They're _friends_. She kind of remembers now. They came on a boat together. She lets him touch her throat at lunch and ignores him when he says he's going to make 54's life a living hell for the rest of his stay. She can't afford to think he's protective. That he cares for her in any way shape or form.

"Did we meet on the boat?" she asks once he stops touching her bruises.

"It was a ship, Hermione," he replies, exasperated.

She blinks and then remembers that's her name from _before_. "Hermione," she says, testing the name on her tongue. "Do I look like a Hermione?"

He shakes his head, mutter a curse under his breath. "You look more like a Hermia. You know, from that play? The shrilly, short brunette?"

"Maybe Hermia will be my new name."

He chuckles. "It's too close to home. There's no way."

"Hermia," she says. "Helena."

"Like the play."

"No." She shakes her head. "Helena."

She sets down her fork and cups her head, exhaling deeply as memories bombard her. Her mum. Her mum's name is Helena. She used to sing her to sleep, and she had beautiful, wild hair and kind brown eyes. She had a crucifix around her neck and would speak of God and Jesus but also of demons and devils.

" _Demon!"_ _her mother cries, finger pointed at her. Tears run down her cheeks and she sobs in the direction of a man standing off to the side. Dad. He doesn't look like he agrees with his wife but he does seem devoid of sympathy or empathy towards his daughter's._

The image subsides, and 17 crosses of her theory about inheriting abilities from her birth parents like 17 must've. The memory stings, but she's glad it popped up. It makes things…easier. To know they're not worrying over what happened to her. That they're likely relieved to be rid of her.

Some of the kids, they talk about their parents. Many who remember theirs speak lofty-like, spinning promising tales of vengeance for abandoning them.

48 wants to kill his uncle. She's certain he's brought it up once or twice, and yet, she doesn't see herself returning to England to confront them.

17 scans her tiny room with his concrete-slab of a cot and her rickety desk. Home, she thinks. This is home, and she can't imagine her life any other way. Here, she has true purpose. She has a destiny. There, in England, she would've been held back. Maybe even hidden forever in that institute.

This place, her room and the facility will not be home much longer, she knows. Moscow calls. It's almost time to serve HYDRA and prove 54 wrong. She won't let The Baron down.

* * *

The night before 48 leaves, he kisses her in the book cellar, and she hates him a little bit for it. She had snuck into cellar like she always does, and he finds her like he always has but instead of play-attacking in hopes of roughhousing, he spins her around and lays his lips on hers.

He's not being romantic. 17's sure he doesn't know how to be nor will he ever, and he certainly doesn't kiss her because he fancies her. He and 82 have a mutual-crush-thing going on. No, he's staking a claim on her because when he pulls away, he tells her she's allowed to forget everything except this.

"Because when I see you again, I'm going to do exactly this."

He says it like a threat.

"You best be careful then. I may tear you apart." She adds a beat later, "without even touching you."

He laughs and backs out of the cellar. His expression of mischief turns into pride. A proudness directed at her. "I might miss you, you know."

"I won't remember to return the sentiment."

"You're going to be amazing," he tells her."HYDRA is making you into something incredible. Hail HYDRA!"

He takes off running, and she says to no one, "Hail HYDRA."

Many years will go by before she's sees him again.

* * *

17 is strapped to a chair, gums and jaw numb as an oral surgeon attempts to climb into her mouth with his hacking metallic tools. The pressure from tugging and grinding and breaking makes her ill. She forces herself not to vomit and reminds herself this is necessary. She can't go to Moscow with her wisdom teeth still in place. Not that they really are. Only one is available for extraction—which is impacted—the others have to be drained. She's out of commission for several days after the procedure and then she has to return to her routine, swollen cheeks and all. When the puffiness and pain reside, and her gums and jaw are healed, braces are slapped on her.

Unfortunately, she's not one of the lucky ones like 24 and 82 who only need retainer plates. As she packs a humble little suitcase, she licks the metal ridges glued to her teeth. She's had them for a month, and they still bother her. There are cuts and cankered wounds inside her mouth, but she has to deal with them. The Baron tells her to be grateful. Orthodontia is a luxury in the program. A luxury, 17 notices, primarily given to girls and not boys. Not all the girls, though, just a select few, and 17's not going to speak for herself, but they are very pretty. Temporary, undercover field assignments are their future.

To put it simply, assassins.

Their purpose is to lure and kill. She can't help but think that may be her future, too, but how boring would that be with all she can do and will be able to do? Killing is simple. Being pretty is easy, too. 17 wants more. Moscow won't give her all that, she knows, but it's an opportunity to serve HYDRA and as long as she does, they'll mold her into what she desires. What she's meant to be.

 _Mold_.

That word.

Something tickles her brain.

"Are you ready?"

17 looks over her shoulder. The Baron stands at her threshold dressed smartly in suit she's never seen him wear before. "How long with the journey be again?"

"Over night. Kristof will be joining you to ensure your safe arrival."

She nods, closing her suitcase. Soon she's in the back of a car with The Baron and Kristof who's out of uniform. He's in more casual attire and both men chat to each other in Norwegian, a language she knew but a few words, but from his body language, The Baron's giving Kristof instructions. It's the first time she's been in a car since she arrived. 17 vaguely remembers the ride to facility. She remembers feeling afraid. Good thing she wasn't alone… She rubs her head and sees a boy. Oh, 48. That's right. He'd been with her. He's graduated now, she assumes. She doesn't remember seeing him at breakfast. Or 54 for that matter. Wonder where they went.

Huh.

"Are you all right, 17?" asks The Baron."

I'm fine." She smiles at the scenery outside the window. "I forgot outside could look different in places."

"Bask in it. You'll rarely leave the theatre after you begin this next phase."

"I'll make you proud, sir."

He smiles and even chuckles. "See that you do. A prize is waiting."

The rest of the drive to the train station is pleasant, and all three of them get out of the car. The station is bustling and 17 thinks it has something to do with USSR falling. People are wanting to come and go now, she guesses, as she walks the station with the two men. It is strange to think if or when she returns, this place may have a different name because she's heard talk.

Sokovia is what they'll call it.

They reach her platform, and The Baron kneels to adjust the lapel of her new coat and her ushanka. "I have an arrangement—an expensive one with an orthodontist—who will be caring for you monthly," he tells her.

"Thank you, sir."

"You may find," he starts hesitantly, "the next seven years very difficult. Do as your teachers tell you, but never forget your purpose. Your mission."

From an outsider's point of view, he's a father bidding his daughter goodbye. On the inside, he's embracing her to whisper, "Hail HYDRA," in her ear.

"Hail HYDRA," she repeats, mustering up as much conviction as she can. He dips his chin at her and withdraws a black booklet. Her passport. She opens it and sees her face on a page, the name Milas Abegglen, age eleven. Born in Dresden "Milas."

She tests the name on her tongue. She tries again more firmly. "Milas Abegglen."

"You're German but _don't_ speak it while you're there. They'll know it's not your first language. Only speak Russian."

"Understood," she says quietly. He affectionately pinches her chin and walks off, leaving her with Kristof.

They board the train, and Kristof ushers her to the dining cart. It's not long before the vodka is flowing, and he's red-cheeked and grinning, speaking of when she first came to the facility. "You've come a long way, 17," he tells her, patting her hand. "From the frightened little child who came to us with a book she could read. Filthy and smelling of fish water. Do you still have the book?"

"Yes."

Kristof reaches for his briefcase and sets it on the table, clicking it open. He pulls out a wrapped, brown-paper package and offers it to her. "A gift from Strucker."

"Do remember to be more formal around him, sir," she playfully reprimands. She breaks open a flap and slides a paperback book out from the encasing. Her eyes scan the title, and she murmurs, " _A Century of Russian Ballet_. How nice. Wish I would've gotten this months ago, but I'll take what I can get."

"You will be dancing with girls who have done so since they were three. At least you can be on level with them in this one aspect until you are caught up."

Night falls faster than 17 likes. Chasing the scenery from the window had been addictive. Russia is more beautiful than she realized. But she needs to get started on her reading, and so Kristof takes her to their impossibly tiny room with a shared bunkbed. That night, she doesn't fall asleep quickly, but stays up with her little flashlight reading her new gift, absorbing every word, thinking of the other girls at the theatre. They'll likely hate her at first. Even the new ones like her. She doesn't have ballet training. The only kinds dancing she knows is the waltz and the Viennese waltz.

The train arrives at the station late in the morning, and Kristof escorts her off the train and onto the platform. They don't walk long until they meet with a beautiful young woman, golden hair styled carefully into a twist. Her posture is textbook, and when she acknowledges them with a dip of her chin and a slant of her hazel eyes, the subtle shifts are careful. 17 finds it odd the KGB sent someone so young to fetch her. The closer she gets to the young woman, 17 sees how young she really is.

More of a girl, really. _Maybe_ eighteen.

Her makeup is heavy. Thick eyeliner and ruby lips.

The older girl sizes her up and smirks. "Ah, the awkward, pre-teenage stage. I don't miss it," she says in German though her accent is heavily Russian. "But I see your potential, Milas. You're going to break some hearts."

The hairs on her neck rise at the mention of her new name and tries to come to terms with herself. She needs to stop addressing herself as 17. It's Milas now.

The girl offers her hand to her. "Katja," she says.

Milas takes the hand, momentarily stunned by the strength and callouses coming from the tiny, pale appendage. Katja smiles, teeth and everything, at Kristof. "I will take her from here, good sir, and bring her to her new home."

Milas watches Kristof disappear in the crowd, nerves catching up with her which only heighten when Katja's squeezes harder. Her perfectly pleasant masks morphs into a severe expression. "Listen to me, you little ugly duckling. I will not have any crying or whining on the way to the theatre. You so much as make a sound of protest or try and fight me in anyway, I will cut your throat and feed your body to stray dogs."

Katja's not bluffing, and Milas knows herself to be replaceable and wonders about other girls at different times that had to be picked up from the train station. Maybe not all of them had been so "briefed" on the situation, and they put up an inconvenient fuss.

"Seems fair," replies Milas, unable to kick the stiffness from her tone.

Katja shakes her head. "It's really not, but you're going to a place where nothing is. Keep that steadiness. You're going to need it."

To Be Continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'll keep this brief. Next chapter's a/n will be longer.**

 **Enjoy. R &R and thanks!**

* * *

 **Chapter 7: First Position**

Katja takes her to the theatre and being outside is overwhelming. Fresh, crisp air makes Milas's head dizzy, but it's a discomfort and a high she relishes. Winter's still in swing, and the chill and snowflakes kiss her cheeks. Katja threatened to kill her not even ten minutes before, but Milas is smiling. For a brief while, she is just another little girl in the city catching snowflakes with her tongue.

Katja catches her with her tongue out and shoots her an annoyed look. "Cut that out."

Milas almost argues to let her be and that she hasn't tasted outside for such a length of time in years. She stops herself, thank goodness. Unlike 17, Milas hasn't spent the last four years in a HYDRA facility. No, she's an ingenious orphan from Dresden with a wealthy Russian uncle who is deep in the pockets of high-up politicians.

Their walk is less than an hour, and they come to the steps of the of the Bolshoi Theatre. Milas reckons the structure appears majestic at night with the lights bouncing off the pillars, giving it a royal as well as holy vibe to onlookers and visitors alike.

She is not shown around but taken immediately to a compartment behind the stage and ordered to remove her clothes except for her underwear. Hazy flashbacks of her arrival to the facility hits her, knowing her position could be worse. She won't be completely naked, and there's not a male guard anywhere to be seen. Her coat and sweater fall to the floor, followed by her boots and trousers, telling herself to not appear vulnerable with Katja who looks famished to give a beating.

Without the layers, the backroom is cold, and goosebumps surface on Mila's skin which worsen with Katja begins to run her hands over her body. It's not sexual, Milas decides but explorative nonetheless. The older girl is primitively getting her measurements as well as searching for physical defects. Katja comes to the scars on her hipbone and her forearm and asks what happened.

"I can't remember," she answers honestly.

Her fingers linger on her hip. "Do you know what it means?"

"Yes."

Katja momentarily removes her hands. "Are you a witch, Milas?"

"I have a skill that unnerves people."

" _Oh."_ Blonde eyebrows creep up to Katja's hairline. "What is it? My superiors didn't say."

"I'm sure it was _wouldn't_ ," says Milas.

The girl's expression is bemused, returning her hands to Milas's body, but with rougher strokes. "You're posture needs improvement, and I can tell you contract your core when practicing high-kicks. Your legs are strong." Katja clenches Milas's thighs but then touches the small of her back, between her shoulder blades, and then her lower abdomen. "But you need strength here, here, and here. All in all, I think your biggest challenge will be your turnout."

"All right."

"Face away from me. Extend your right leg backwards."

Milas complies, and Katja sighs. "Point your toes and rotate the front of your leg to the side."

That feels extremely uncomfortable, but she does it, and Katja grabs her ankle and lifts.

"Keep your hips square and stop leaning back."

"I'm going to fall over."

"Then stop leaning. Keep your posture straight and direct your thoughts to your core, Milas. Other leg."

Milas finds her left leg is not as flexible as her right, but she channels her focus to her tummy. Katja clicks her tongue. "You're sickle-footing."

"Sorry."

"Fix it."

She rotates her ankle outwards, and her leg is lowered.

"Face me," orders Katja. "Keep your legs together and parallel."

Once Milas is in position, the older girl continues. "Keep your heels touching. Fan out your feet. Turn them out as broadly as you can."

Milas adjusts and then grimaces. Compared to the beautiful, elegant women in her new book, her feet are awful. And she doesn't have to read Katja's mind to know she's thinking the same thing.

"As suspected, your turnout needs work. Every martial art style and the rudimentary gymnastics training you know will not prepare you for class tomorrow. As you establish the technique and develop it, the way you fight, think, react will change. Ballet is going to intensify your skills _and_ prevent damage to your body in the future."

Katja tells her to stay put, and she darts into an adjoining office. When she comes back, she's holding two boxes, one thin and flat, the other thick and rectangular. On top of that, is a folded pair of new pink tights which she unravels first and instructs Milas to put on. Next comes the thin flat box which is the plain black leotard. It stretches too snugly and modestly over her torso and shoulders. Lastly, the pink canvas slippers.

"How do they fit?" asks Katja and then invasively runs her finger from the sewn edge neighboring her crotch to her hip bone. "The leotard. Is it cutting here?"

"Yes."

"Good. It should fit more comfortably when we get you down to training weight. Remove everything, and put them in your suitcase and get your clothes on."

"Training weight?"

* * *

There's a tunnel below the stage, and Milas is led down it and into a hallway which smells of perfume and cigarette smoke. Up ahead, there are open doors, astoundingly beautiful young women casually leaning against the frames, cigarettes either wedged between fingers or lips. Milas side glances into one of the rooms, a moan catching her attention, and sees two girls on the top bunk of a bunkbed doing…oh.

Milas whips her eyes forward, a warm blush heating her cheeks.

She hears another moan come from two other rooms, but as she journeys further down the hall, she believes the girls get younger and younger and less…noisy. She shifts her mind into a more focused area, wondering which girl will try to kill her first. Earlier on the train, she remembered 54 and what she did. Milas knows she needs to be on the defense always.

The room she's taken to, like the others, the door is open. Unlike the others, no one is smoking. There are three girls in the room, and Milas swallows the anxiety toiling in her stomach. Instantly, the memory of 54's hands wrapped around her neck summersaults forward, and she can't help but think whoever tries to kill her will likely be one of the three girls.

There are two bunkbeds in the room, and the first girl Milas sees is on top of one, a gigantic tome in her lap. She looks about nine or ten. The second one is on the floor, wrapping one of her calves. The other calve is wrapped with an ice bag harnessed to it, and she definitely looks no younger than thirteen. The third girl is at the one and single desk with a 700 series HP. She looks a solid ten years old.

Unlike the older girls, none of her roommates are particularly pretty. _Yet_. The one the floor isn't bad looking, but she's got braces, too, and a strong case of t-zone inflammation.

"Girls," begins Katja, "say hello to Milas."

Only the one on the floor looks up but to glare at Katja and tell her to fuck off in Finnish. From Katja's expression, she has no idea what the girl said but does knows it's likely rude.

"Milas," Katja says, her tone flat, "Taru, Damdinsuryn, and Natalia. The dresser is over there where you can put your things. This is where I leave you."

Questions wish to fling themselves from her tongue, but Milas watches helplessly as Katja stalks down the hallway, her posture flawed from tension thick in her shoulder region.

Milas looks back into the room. None of the girls are staring at her or acknowledging her in anyway. She steps a foot over the threshold and then another. She circles Taru and goes to the dresser. There is four and each drawer is occupied is full.

"Don't touch our things," snaps Taru in Russian.

"I need to—"

"Don't. Touch. Our things."

Milas looks at the bottom drawer, open and full, and then back at Taru. The girl's taller than Milas and likely outweighs by at least ten pounds, but she's not scary. Milas came from scary. She knows hell is coming for her in this KGB program, but she refuses to let something as pathetic as her attitude to become a part of it.

Not saying a word, she dips her chin and sets her suitcase beside the dresser.

"Which bed is mine?" she asks.

Natalia, with one hand hitting the keyboard, points her other to the bottom bunk that Damdinsuryn isn't sitting on. Milas takes a moment to consider the girl, her hair fiery red. She's not pretty…yet. As she assessed before, none of them are. Natalia looks like she hasn't grown into her nose or ears yet, and her green eyes look too small for her face given her pale lashes.

Damdinsuryn is pale for a Mongolian—Milas guesses that's her nativity and wonders how long she's been cooped up inside. Baby fat clings to Damdinsuryn, especially in the cheeks, and Katja had gone on and on about the importance of training weight back in the changing room. Aside from Milas, the girl must be the newest one here regardless of sunlight exposure or lack thereof.

Then there's Taru. Skin so pale, she looks like runs eighty degrees cooler than normal and could freeze a person solid by merely blowing on them. Her eyes are dark blue, and her hair is the color of rose gold. Out of all them, she has the potential to be the loveliest, but the way her mouth sets in a wrinkled pinch and the unfortunate case of acne she's sporting, stops her short.

All four of them are physically different, but they all do have one thing in common.

Milas sits down on the bunk and rides up the hem of her sleeve. She's pale, too. Likely none of them have been outside too much _at all_ , and from what The Baron said, that won't change.

"Do we ever get to go outside?" she chances.

Taru snorts, shaking her head. "I got here two years ago, and I haven't since."

"There are windows in one of the studios," Natalia reveals. "Each group practices there twice a week."

"What's it like out there today?" asks Damdinsuryn, her voice at least two octaves higher than Milas' and Taru's, and four octaves higher than Natalia's. She sounds like a toddler.

She wants to say amazing, but she doesn't want to be cruel even though The Baron's voice inside her head is telling her to be. He's ordering her to brag or point out how pathetic their sun-starved faces look. To show dominance and power. It's a pointless request. How would it better her position but make her hated by these three girls? She should be getting close to them. Gaining their trust and respect. HYDRA is her home, but these girls will be her comrades in the KGB.

"It was," she starts with a smile, "very nice. Cold, but I didn't mind. I haven't got to go outside a whole lot myself, you know."

"Was the sun out?" asks Damdinsuryn. Her book is discarded now, and she's peering down over the railing of her bunk.

"A little bit. It was snowing."

Natalia chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Sounds about right."

"There were…so many smells I had forgotten what a city can smell like in the cold. It's loud, too. Car horns honking. People shouting and laughing." Milas quiets for a moment, a frayed thread shaking loose again in her brain.

"What kinds of smells?" Taru scoots closer.

"Katja and I passed a bakery and cafe. There were people inside eating cake."

Damdinsuryn falls dramatically to her side, the back of her hand on her forehead. She lets out a groan. "I haven't had cake since I don't know when."

Taru lets out an incredulous laugh. " _You_ haven't had cake in forever? You've been here a month."

Milas is in the same boat with Damdinsuryn. There were no desserts at the facility. The sweet things she and other others got to eat was fruit, and that's it. She honestly can't remember the last time she had candy or dessert. At this point, either one would likely make her sick.

"Did you see boys?" Taru's tone goes a little high on that.

Milas stifles a laugh and recalls seeing boys around their age selling newspaper at several street corners. She nods and then something strikes her. Her gaze sweeps over the girls. In how many ways are they closed off from the outside world.

"You've heard the Soviet's fallen, right?" She looks to Damdinsuryn first who lets out an _eep_ -ing sound and catapults off the bed and rushes to close the door.

"Clearly," starts Damdinsuryn, her back pressed against the door, "Katja forgot to tell you to keep your mouth shut about that."

Both Natalia and Taru get to their feet, eyes darting from Damdinsuryn to Milas. "What…what does this mean?" asks Taru.

"They haven't told us anything," says Natalia, and Milas sees the cogs working inside her head. She then sighs, heading back to the chair. "Because nothing has really changed for _us_."

A solemn expression paints Taru's expression, and she sits down on the bottom bunk of Damdinsuryn's. "Right," she says. She falls back on the mattress, hands tucked behind her head. "You know the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here?"

"It changes every time you ask," replies Natalia.

"I'm going to France. I'll got to the beach and get sunburnt and eat pastries until I puke." Her mouth quirks. "I might go to a nude beach. I want to see a penis."

"Gross!" Damdinsuryn sticks out her tongue and shudders, and Natalia nods in agreement.

"They're kind of weird looking," Milas pitches.

That gets their attention. Taru shoots her an envious, wide grin. "You've seen one?"

Loads, she about says but thinks better of it. Why, when, where would have Milas seen a boy's doodad? She never had to shower in lavatory with them? Milas comes from money and a respected family with traditional values. There's no reason in the world for her to see any naked body besides her own.

"My cousin," she lies. "Family vacation. Dared him to skinny dip in the pool. Idiot wouldn't back down. Really thought he'd go for truth, you know?"

"Oh! Let's play truth or dare!" squeals Taru, and Natalia suddenly looks exhausted.

"It's almost lunch." Natalia swivels her gaze to Milas. "For some of us."

* * *

There is a kitchen and dining area not too far down the hallway. When Milas enters, she's stumped. It's an actual kitchen-not a cafeteria-with an attached dining area. There's a sink, refrigerator, stove, oven, microwave, cupboards, etc. Natalia dives down to one of the lower cupboards and extracts a teakettle and huge pot.

"I'll boil the water for the tea and rice," she says.

"Each group takes turns cooking," explains Taru. "Our group…oh, here are the others."

Four more girls show up. Two of them have icepacks strapped to their legs like Taru. The four girls look between eleven and fourteen.

"This is Milas," introduces Taru. "She has to get down to training weight, so she doesn't have to cook."

The oldest of the four girls doesn't even look at her but looks at Damdinsuryn. "Maybe you should get back on that, Damdi. You're looking puffy."

"It's just the way my body looks," Damdinsuryn retorts. "And don't call me that."

"It's not my fault your fat parents or whoever decided to barf the alphabet when naming you."

"Let's stop this now," says Natalia. "We don't want Madam B's whip again, do we?"

That shuts up the girl, but she does roll her eyes and pad over to the cupboard. "I'll you make the fish, Beatrix. Just let me get the spices. New girl," she says, turning to throwing two tea packets at Milas. "Steep these two together and drink for each meal for three days. Lemon water with a pinch of cayenne in between."

"Katja said no solids for just the first two days. Then I can—"

"It'll drop your weight faster. It'll cut you down to seven days instead of ten. Believe me. That fucking leotard will be causing all kinds of friction havoc on your pelvis. The sooner you lose the weight, the happier you'll be. Same goes for you, Damdi."

Damdinsuryn scowls into the cookbook she's reading but doesn't rise to bait. "I think everyone would like a lemon poppy seed sauce with the fish and rice. Hannah, when you're getting the stuff out of the fridge for the salad, grab the lemons."

Milas wandered over to a table, watching the girls work together like a finely tuned machine. Not…all of them are nice to each other. They bicker and toss insults, but there seems to be an underlying sense of a bond based on a deep understanding of one another. When the older girls show up to eat, she wonders if the atmosphere will change, but it doesn't. There's still the bickering and snide comments, but there's no real hostility. There _is_ gratitude from them to the younger bunch who prepared the meal.

A theory comes to mind. She theorizes it's not the girls she has to worry about like she initially thought. She won't say for certain, but she's seventy-five percent sure none of them will try to kill her anytime soon. And if it's not them that's going to make the next seven years hell, then it's going to have be the instructors.

But, really? How much worse can they be than the ones at the facility?

To be Continued...


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Big thanks to Guest, Nightcrawlerfw, roon0,** **Margareitha Malfoy-Nott, kfawcett1998, St3phP33l, craaazyaboutMalfoy, and meldz for your reviews. To my other readers and followers, thank you, as well.**

 **To comment on somethings, yes, Hermione is going to through an extremely traumatic ordeal, and I know it's probably hard to read. She's not like the Hermione we're used to and love because of it.**

 **Also, I know some of you are probably getting impatient on her growing up and finding herself a stud muffin. You probably want her to properly meet Tony, Steve, Bucky, whoever and fall in love and become a bad ass Avenger. *Raises cautionary finger* Careful now. There's a lot more stuff she's got to go through first before all that. With that said, feel free to review the warnings listed on the first chapter.**

 **I also wonder if someone of you are growing impatient because she's unable to access all of her magical abilities. _Please_ hold strong. I like to think you won't regret what's coming.**

 **And lastly, how are you guys liking little Natasha? There's more of her in this chapter, so enjoy! R &R and Hail HYDRA!**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Cognitive Calibration**

It isn't until she's twelve, after sparing with Natalia, that she remembers her real name. She'd already been losing. Natalia is, not only Madam B's favorite of the younger group, she's a force. Despite the last four plus years of training, Milas still lost the row. She even held her hands up in surrender, mouth bloody and right eye swollen. Bruised ribs on top of that. She was stooped on the hard wooden floor, hand on the barre to keep her from falling over completely.

Natalia _had_ stopped at Milas' surrender and looked to Madam B for praise at defeating Taru, Damdinsuryn, and now her.

From the corner of Milas' eye, Madam B showed no approval. In fact, she shook her head and clicked her tongue.

" _You are weak. Finish her."_

" _She surrendered."_

" _How do you know she is not faking? Pressing at your sympathies to gain the upperhand."_

" _I don't think she is."_

" _Finish her, Natalia!"_

Milas' temple cracked against the barre, her vision blackened. When she woke, she was on her bunk and the process was slow. Thick and gooey the memories were that The Baron tried to so hard to eliminate.

The first thing she knows is her name is not Milas. Though she guesses she can find the humor in it, given it means apple in Greek.

Hermione. Her name is Hermione.

Natalia's got the desk's chair scooted up and close to Hermione's side of the bunk. She's dabbing a cold, damp cloth over her eye and temple. Said eye won't open.

"Next time, lead with that," she tells Natalia.

The girl ducks her head and removes the cloth, replacing it with an icepack. Hermione winces and takes the pack from her. She tries to get up, but Natalia pushes her back down, shaking her head.

"You have a concussion, so let me know when you need to throw up."

Her roommate feels guilty, but there are no apologies here, so she cracks a pained smirk. "You did good."

"You need to get better," snaps Natalia.

"Give me a couple of days—"

"At winning," she interjects.

"I win," argues Hermione. "Just not against you."

"I'm tired of always being the last one standing. I'm tired of always having to be the one…" Her voice trails off.

Over the passed several months, Hermione has gotten a good read on her roommates. And, yes, she may have taken discreet peeks here and there inside their heads which led her to know that Taru thinks about breaking out at least three times a day, and Damdinsuryn's is getting candy from somewhere. And then there's Natalia who's fooling everyone—except Hermione—into believing she's a sociopath. Natalia has taken to her for some strange reason. She's doesn't wallow by Taru or Damdinsuryn beds when she flattens them. She's not telling them to fight better and putting cool, damp rags on their heads after bashing them in.

Hermione eyes Natalia out of the corner of her eye, wondering if the girl has developed some sort of crush on her. Cute, but she's certain that's not it.

Her head hurts. Memories are hitting here in all the wrong places, but she needs to figure out Natalia…oh.

Oh, it's obvious now.

"You trying a little too hard," she tells Natalia.

The girl's expression doesn't shift. "What do you mean?"

"Madam B wants information about me, doesn't she? Or my uncle, that is."

"I have no idea—"

"Maybe if you'd been more indifferent, you might've succeeded." Hermione gets up into a sitting position. "You're not bad, I'll give you that. But you're going to have to get better."

The slightest shade of pink appears on Natalia's cheeks.

"Since Madam B will box your ears and whip you for failing, I'll give you something, but you've got to do something for me in return."

Her green eyes narrow. "What?"

"I need to know," Hermione begins—a bit theatrically, "where Damdinsuryn is getting her sweets. Hannah and Valentina, too"

"Excuse me?"

Hermione gets up from the bed and climbs onto Damdinsuryn's bunk and unscrews the round-over and extracts a wadded up pouch. She loosens the opening and dumps the cellophane wrapped candy onto the mattress. Natalia marches up to snag one, bringing a caramel candy closer to her face.

"At first I thought she was snatching from the older girls, but their stash is a bit more sophisticated—"

"I know who she got these from."

"Who?"

* * *

The library is a much better place to study than the dank book cellar at the facility. It's not like a real library, no, but it's close enough, and Hermione loves it here. She does her classes during the day and then retires here to unwind. Relax. Some of the books here are old and hardly read. When she opens the pages, the musty scent of yellow paper and old ink...it's euphoric.

Sometimes the scar on her arm ins't enough to remember it all.

Or even remember.

She scarred herself for all intents and purposes to remember her parents, but now…she remembers them. And with being out of the facility, their faces won't be taken from her.

She _might_ miss them, but it's complicated. They sent her away. Her parents feared her, and she couldn't really blame them. The Baron openly admitted she's dangerous and that she doesn't believe for a moment she's tapped into all her potential.

Before Hermione changed, she did have a good life. It wasn't perfect, no. She didn't have friends and that hasn't really changed, but she did have a mom and a dad planning a future for her. She was so young, but they talked of universities and professions she could go into. They wanted for her. They dreamed for her. Her father. He wanted her to see the world. Her mum. Her mum wanted her to love God and His creatures. Helena Granger had told her she was good with animals. She'd make a spectacular vet.

Hermione looks down at her hands and sees the blood from the rabbits, cats, dogs, mice, and rats she's butchered to please The Baron. Even as 17, she couldn't handle the slaughter and sacrifice.

She told The Baron she would no longer kill animals. She told him they are better than humans and to give her a person deserving of a such fate. The Baron denied her request, telling her they'd stop with the animals but she'd get her chance and killing a person when the time was right.

She didn't kill 54. Maybe she should've. There's a nagging in the back of her head, telling her that'll come and bite in her in arse someday.

"You've been reading that page for ten minutes. Care to share?" Natalia paces next to Hermione, impatience fraying her normally cool edges.

Hermione leisurely flips that page she of the book she had not been reading. They've been in the library now for an hour which really isn't that bad, but Natalia is ready to get this done and over with.

"Are you sure you don't want to let Madam B on this?" asks Hermione.

The girl shakes her head. "She won't believe us." Her expression turns sour. "She'll just think Damdinsuryn is stealing from the other girls, and then all three of us will get a whipping. You and me because we wasted her time with something so stupid and her because she's indulging. But I know she's been getting the candy from Petr. It's his thing. He tries to tempt all the girls—"

"He's a pedophile."

She shakes her head. "I thought so to at first, but think about it. Damdinsuryn is showing no signs of abuse."

"She may not think she's being abused."

"Don't let that obnoxious baby voice and round face fool you. She's as brilliant and lethal as the rest of us."

"If she's so brilliant, why is she accepting the candy?" Hermione arches a brow.

"She likes swe—"

"There's got to be more to it than that."

Natalia is silent for a moment. "Then we'll ask her. Once she gets here."

"She will. She can't stay away from this place for too long."

"Like you."

"Book are educational. It's how I'm perfecting my Japanese and learning Mandarin."

Natalia stops her pacing and plops down in the chair beside Hermione. "So you said you'd tell me something if I helped you out with this. I didn't realize you'd sell your uncle out so easily."

Hermione chuckles. "Whatever I'm about to tell you, I wouldn't be surprised at all if Madam B didn't already know."

"Go on."

Hermione closes her book and shifts in her seat to face Natalia. "The KGB as we both know it is finished. The Soviet's gone. President Yeltsin has been sworn it. I've heard from a source Kryuchkov failed."

Her source being her orthodontist who handed her a new toothbrush with an encrypted message store inside the hollow of the handle.

"Then why are we still here?" Natalia folds her arms.

"Because we've been adopted by a small _classified_ faction of what will be known at the FSB once the dust has settled. Our program would've been cut with everything else falling apart, but they're keeping us on because they need soldiers. Patriots. Trained and highly skilled personnel loyal to the cause of making what Russia really should be. The world's capital. For far too long, the westerners in their tiny countries have been calling the shots and _missing_. It's time for us to show them how it's done."

Something washes over Natalia's face, and Hermione pockets the expression as more evidence that Natalia isn't as bad as she wants to think she is. She better get rid of tells. If Hermione can spot them, then how hasn't Madam B?

"Hey, you two," announces Damdinsuryn as she rounds the corner of a bookcase. "Good to see you, Milas. Natalia, surprised to see you here"

Natalia is the first to get up. She throws Damdinsuryn's pouch of candy on the table. "You're going to tell us exactly what you've been telling Petr. And then…"

Damdinsuryn bristles, and Hermione jumps from her chair and grabs the girl's arm.

"Then what?" the girl asks quietly.

"Then we go see Madam B," finishes Hermione.

* * *

The doorknob to maintenance closet twists. The door opens and in steps Petr, one of the guards of Madam B's. From behind the shelf of cleaners, Hermione watches Natalia slip behind the man, grab his gun, and shoot him in the back of his lower leg. The sound of the shot echoes off the walls as does his screams. There are several thick walls between them and the rest of everyone, but Hermione's not confident no one heard. Hopefully, she and Natalia will the get the information they need before some finds them.

Kneeling, she tightens the rope, made of cut and knotted mop threads, around Damdinsuryn's wrists and ankles. She had to knock her out with a broken broomstick due to the girl attacking her and screaming in Mongolian/Russian gibberish. At that point, it'd been easy to access her mind. She thumbed through memories and found something very, very interesting. The downside was, she couldn't tell Natalia. The info they need has to come directly from Petr who's on the floor and rolls over to face his attacker, his eyes bulging out when seeing Natalia standing over him with his pistol trained on him.

"Don't move," she orders.

"What the hell are you doing?" he barks.

"You finally found someone interested in your candy. Well, the charade's over. Damdinsuryn is dead. Milas cut her throat."

Hermione steps out from the shadows and joins Natalia in standing over Petr. She takes in his wild eyes and appalled expression. His gaze goes from her to Natalia, and he gestures at them. "You don't understand. You poor girls," he says in English, his accent of London and his tone quivering. "I was trying to help her. I'm trying to help you all."

"Help us?" Natalia frowns. "What lies did you feed Damdinsuryn?"

"I can help you," the man says, his pained grimace turning hopeful. "I can get you out of here. You can be free."

"The candy—" starts Natalia.

"To be nice. You girls are in prison. Can't you see? There's a world out there—"

"You used the candy to gain Damdinsuryn's trust. You weren't being kind. You—"

"He's a spy, Natalia," interjects Hermione. "You can see that, right?"

"Of course," she says and turns her attention back to Petr. "MI-6?"

He doesn't say anything, but Hermione knows he is via Damdinsuryn. He promised her freedom in exchange for nothing. His mission is collecting intel on Chelintsov's program, but if he can get a few girls out of it when it's time for extraction, all the better.

Hermione studies him. He's young. So fresh and naïve. He's handsome, too, and can't be older than twenty. She wonders if this is his first mission, and she smiles sadly inside because this is her first, too. The only difference is, she's going to make it out alive. He let his emotions get in the way, and she really can't fault him for it. He sees her and all the other girls, not as a threat, but as children in danger. They are not his mission, but he can't stop himself from trying.

A part of Hermione, a strange part, wants to let him go. She wants to give him, not only Damdinusryn but Taru, as well, and tell him to leave this place.

She sees him go for his knife too late. He's quick as a flash, and he slices Natalia's arm, shocking her to drop the gun. He lunges for it, but it's closer to Hermione. She picks it up, aims, and pulls the trigger. His spine hits the floor, and wetness spills from his chest, soaking his black sweater. Vomit rises to the back of Hermione's throat because she wishes he would've died right away. It would've been easier than to watch his body stop jerking and his eyes go vacant.

 _Monster!_

Her mother's voice rings loud and clear and present in her mind.

 _Devil!_

God, what has she done?

She takes it back. Killing isn't simple.

The closet door bursts open, and Madam B is there with the rest of her men. It's like her arrival happens in slow motion and everything that happens after follows in the same manner.

She and Natalia are separated. She's locked in an old, unused office and left there for two days with no food or water. She has to relieve herself in a corner and has nothing to do but fear she's failed The Baron. At least she could take comfort she didn't fail HYDRA. That she hadn't exposed them.

Finally, the door opens, and she expects to see a guard, but it's Madam B. Her nose wrinkles, and Hermione knows the woman can smell her waste. Hermione only gives away she's shocked to see the woman and does not show embarrassment of what had to take place in her isolation.

"Wash yourself and then put on your nice dress. When you are finished, come to the Red Room."

Hermione nods slowly. "Yes, Madam."

She leaves the room and is so very weak, but she manages to the lavatories which is miraculously empty. There are no girls anywhere and when she goes to her room, none of her roommates are there. She quickly puts on the standard black dress with the white collar and black tights. She slips on her polished Mary Janes and wraps her hair in a crown braid.

At the threshold of the studio, she pauses, taken back by all the faces in the room. Everyone is in there.

"Take your place by Taru," says Madam B.

Hermione walks to Taru's side, taking in the scene. All the girls except two line up along the north mirror. The two who aren't are Serena and Damdinsuryn. Beside Serena is a table with a gun. On the opposite side of that table is Madam B, Katja, and Master N. A few feet in front of Serena is Damdinsuryn hunched on the floor, a blindfold over her face and a gag over her mouth. Her sobs echo off the walls.

"Serena," starts Madam B, "has turned eighteen. It is time for her to fulfill the first part of the initiation before completion of the program. Serena?"

"Yes, Madam," the girl replies quietly.

"Kill Damdinsuryn."

Serena does not reach for the gun. "You still have not said what she has done?"

"Who's to say she's done anything? I'm giving you an order, Serena, and I know you will comply. You are strong."

Serena's hand reaches for the gun, palm hovering over the weapon momentarily before taking it. Hermione sees the girl's shoulders are taught. She looks to the other girls beside her, and both Taru and Hannnah boldly turn towards the mirror, close their eyes, and cover their ears. Some of the older girls see their actions. Three of them do the same.

"Not all your sisters are strong like you," Madam B chimes. "You are the oldest. Show them the way, and kill the weakest."

Hermione's heart beats loud in her chest, and guilt consumes her. This is her fault. Damdinsuryn is going to die because of her. She killed Petr and now Damdinsuryn. She's a fool. For being responsible for their deaths and for caring. Milas wouldn't have fouled up, but she's not her right now, and she wants to turn away like the other girls did, but she can't. Damdinsuryn will die. The least she could do is try to make the girl's last few moments more bearable.

She's never entered anyone's mind at such a distance, but Hermione's going to try nonetheless. When Serene takes aim, Hermione delves into Damdinsuryn's mind and finds a memory of her and her father. They're on a horse that's galloping at high-speed. The wind is crisp on her cheeks but the sun is out, and the meadow is green.

The shot is fired, and Hermione pulls out and turns away. She squeezes her eyes shut. Damdinsuryn's sobs are replaced by Serena's.

 _You were right, mum,_ she thinks. _I am a monster._

* * *

What happened with Damdinsuryn, Natalia, Hermione, and Petr is never discussed. It's like it never happened. Damdinsuryn's things are gone from the dresser and closet, but Hermione can't even attempt to properly unpack her suitcase now that there's space.

Her thoughts drift to Valentina and Hannah. They were getting candy and promises from Petr, too. She won't say anything and from the looks of it, neither will Natalia.

She had feared Taru's and the other girls' wrath. That they would try to seek revenge on Natalia and her for selling out Damdinsuryn. They don't, and Hermione thinks it's because they don't know everything, and they never will. She and Natalia don't go unscathed, unfortunately. Both receive a whipping from Madam B for not coming to her in the first place, but she excuses them from class for a week, allowing them to heal from the punishment.

Natalia claims it's a gift for neutralizing a threat. Despite the outcome, they've impressed Madam B for acting efficiently.

Time goes on and Damdinsuryn's space is never filled. A year passes and still no replacement. At this point, Hermione remembers everything. The life before being the institute and everything after. She remembers the first shock HYDRA gave her to make her forget and all the ones following. The Baron probably did not anticipate she'd remember everything so soon, but he needn't worry. She doesn't need to be disciplined with shocks and propaganda films anymore. She's accepted her circumstances, and sure, she's grown fond of these girls, but HYDRA is her purpose.

On the bed, she grabs the black box and opens the flaps and grabbing her first pair of pink satin pointe ballet slippers. Sitting down on the floor, she slips them on and carefully wraps the ribbons around her ankles while Taru manipulates her hair into a crown braid. Her wild curls don't care much for a slick, neat bun.

She checks her reflection in Taru's hand mirror. While in the HYDRA facility, there were hardly any mirrors anywhere. Vanity was something left to the older kids. Now, Hermione is slowly becoming familiar with her own face again, and it has changed a lot from the scared seven year old girl in the Snow White nightgown.

"You're pretty, Milas," Taru tells her.

Hermione hands the mirror back. "Not as pretty as you, but thanks."

It's true. Taru has outgrown her awkward stage. Her skin has cleared for the most part, and she no longer has braces. She's also learned to stop pinching her mouth so much.

"See you later," she says, grabbing her bag and booking it out the door.

Hermione watches her go and then looks into the hand mirror again, whispering, "Hail HYDRA."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Here we go! Hermione's getting to be a big girl now! Enjoy and R &R!**

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Initiation**

 **Moscow 1997**

Hermione can't sleep. She can't believe how fast the years have gone by, nor can she believe she's come so far and no way shape or form exposed her true nature or self to the girls and to Madam B. It's so incredible, she halfway expects to be the one gunned down at her graduation ceremony in a few hours. She imagines Madam B clucking her tongue and laughing, mocking and cruel, asking if she really thought she'd never get caught.

The thing is…

Surviving the program isn't even HYDRA's intent. When she came here at eleven, she was a seed with the expectation to grow and prosper and infiltrate the KGB. Her mission is to be a double agent, not to take down Russian Intelligence, but to have a figurative head of HYDRA's in place to be a step ahead of the game.

Unlike other seeds who've been distributed here and there across the globe, she is not to make friends. As in, she's not meant to bring others into the fold which had been difficult considering she'd love to have Taru with her.

It's a selfish desire.

Hermione misses her and hopes to see her soon. They had made…plans, and it's all too easy to reflect on how their relationship developed. It's ironic, too. They were already close but truly bonded over _Lord of the Flies_. Taru stole it from her and read and reread it, unable to part with it. So starved for even the tiniest bit of male influence. She yearned for a boy's presence and nearly had a seizure from envy when Hermione disclosed of her first and only kiss.

To calm her down or shut her up-Hermione can't really remember what she was thinking- she grabbed Taru's face and kissed her just to her show her kissing isn't all that great. At first, Hermione got the impression Taru hadn't enjoyed it at all due to getting a slap to the left cheek. Her roommate had stalked out of the library in a snit muttering "so gross" underneath her breath.

Hermione hadn't been offended. The intent was to mellow her out, not seduce her. Plus, Hermione wasn't exactly sure on where she stands on what she likes, whether male or female or both. Through her pubescent years, she's only been surrounded by other pubescent girls for the most part. The men that were around were guards and so off limits, there's no bother in looking twice. Displaying even the slightest interest in one of them could resort into the most horrible of whippings.

It used to not be so strict.

Until Prya.

A horrible whipping would've been a blessing for her.

No, she had to be expelled from the program. The same way Damdinsuryn was. Taru had been the one to pull the trigger, not only eliminating Prya but her fetus, as well.

After learning the second part of the initiation of graduating Chelintsov's program, the purpose of these girls became clear. Their purpose is to take life, not to create it. And even before Prya, the sterilizing procedure had been in place, but she'd been a year from graduation.

Madam B doesn't care what happened between the girls. Two of them couldn't make a child. She does, however, lecture often on the danger and pathetic nature of attachments, and The Baron would likely agree with her. Hermione finds it hard with Taru, though, and a little bit with Natalia. Natalia is her friend. Taru is more.

Following that slap from Taru, Hermione spent the next couple of hours studying before going to her room. Taru had been there. Natalia had not been. Ever the teacher's pet, she'd been doing some private training with Madam B.

Hermione disclosed an apology towards Taru, the girl buried in _Anna Karenina_. Taru had shrugged, not saying anything, so Hermione took the opportunity to get on the computer and work on the Ant Algorithm that took Natalia all of an hour to mimic.

Five minutes into a blaring headache, Taru had come beside her and told her she liked boys despite the lack of them. Hermione had nodded, not bothering to look away from the screen or stop her typing. Then Taru grabbed _her_ face, pulling it to the side, and kissed her.

It had taken time getting used to kissing Taru. They'd both been inexperienced, and awkward, and brace-faced. But soon their friendship turned into a companionship of intimacy as Taru approached graduation, the idea of finding a place together after Hermione finished the program got tossed around.

Two year since Taru graduated, and Hermione's can't help but feel like a fool for hoping Taru's still waiting. There's been no contact. There couldn't be, and Taru had never veered off the path of boy-hungriness despite their relationship.

Hermione takes a deep breath and forces herself to let go of any romantic notion of them having a life together. There's so many reasons why it can't happen, and why she shouldn't even dare hope.

The alarm clock goes off, and Natalia shifts underneath her covers. Hermione turns off the clock and leaves to shower. A few other girls are already in the stalls and there are so few of them now left at the theatre. She was the last to come into the program and now all but a handful have graduated.

After her shower, she returns to her room and dons in her new ceremony dress she'll only get to wear once. It's the same as all the others—black with the white lace collar. She slides on a pair of sheer stockings and puts on her buckled, black kitten heels. It's graduation, and she's going to wear her hair down. Something she's only been able to do at night before bed or in the shower.

She goes to area behind the stage where Natalia and Hannah are waiting for her. She sits down at the lit vanity next to them and holds still as they apply her makeup. Hannah wants to put her hair up, but Hermione shakes her head.

"No," she says, studying her reflection in the mirror. Other girls before her have applied heavy coats of powders and thick layers of creams as if they were performing on the stage for all of Moscow. She has chosen natural tones and regrets it.

Her mother is staring back at her.

 _Devil._

 _Evil._

"A little more, maybe," she tells the girls.

They apply eyeliner and darker shade of lipstick. Her mother is harder to see now and thanks the Natalia and Hannah.

"It's time," replies Natalia. "Are you nervous?"

Hermione considers her friend, knowing full well now the girl's heart isn't true to the program or the KGB. Natalia operates to survive, and she's good at it. She's adaptable and hard to surprise. Very little phases her now, and she's great at pretending she knows things. It's her skill, along with being lethal and alarming beautiful. Like Taru, she grew out of her awkward, little girl stage and transformed into a stunning young woman.

"Yes," Hermione says.

"Have you given any thought what you'll do with your week before going on assignment?" asks Hannah.

Hermione smirks. "I'm going to have sex," she lies and adds a beat later, "with a man."

Hannah squeals, grinning excitedly. "Where?"

"Probably a bed. I'm not kinky."

Natalia almost smiles, and Hannah shakes her head. "I meant where are you going?"

"Not far. I doubt it'll be that hard to find a man."

"You don't want your first time to be with just any random man, Milas."

"It's not her fir—" tries Natalia.

"It will be the first time she has a you-know-what inside her you-know-where," supplies Hannah.

"You know ten different ways to kill someone with a chopstick, and you can't say the words." Natalia gives a rare chuckle, affectionate in sound.

Hermione gets up from the padded chair, inhaling. "I'm ready. It's time."

* * *

In the Red Room, Hermione politely and respectfully dips her chin at the five girls lined up at the mirror. To Madam B, Katja, and Master N; she curtsies. Her eyes fall to the pistol on the table between them, picks it up, and aims at the kneeling figure on the wooden floor.

For months, she practiced in her mind how she wanted this to go. She learned years before killing isn't simple but it could be quick if she allowed herself not to dwell. To act only. When she entered the room, she purposefully did not look in the direction of her victim. It left room for distraction. For hesitancy. For regret and guilt.

The person before her is a woman, she's certain. Young by her lithe figure, though Hermione can't see her face. There's a black sack over her head as opposed to the blindfolds the others have had to wear in the past.

Flicking the safety off, Hermione exhales. She's going to do this. But not for Russia. Never for them. For HYDRA.

Hail HYD—

No!

A lock of rose gold hair peeks out from beneath the black sack.

It's Taru.

"Madam B," she whispers. "What has she done?"

"Why don't you tell me? Put your talent to use for us one last time, child," says Madam B which surprises Hermione. Usually when a graduate asks, the same answers are given.

It doesn't matter.

Who's to say they've done anything?

It's not for you to know.

Madam B doesn't really understand how her talent works, believing she can get an eerily accurate read on those around her.

"It doesn't work that way. I need—"

"If it doesn't, then pull the trigger. You know how this works, Milas. Whether you find out she's worthy of death or not, she will die. You will kill her."

Hermione lowers the gun and delves into Taru's mind at a gentle pace. She weaves through the last year since Taru left and sees her board a plane to the United States hours after leaving the theatre. She sees her in New York City and then crossing a lobby with a Central Intelligence Agency emblem on the glossy floor. She fast-forwards through the memories, witnessing missions for both the FSK and CIA and an unprofessional affair with her handler twenty years her senior.

Hermione pulls out. She's seen enough.

She had known Taru hated the program but had no idea the girl had the steel to betray Russia. Hermione can't help how impressed she is. Taru didn't even bat an eyelash when walking into the CIA. It'd been a plan of hers for a while to take advantage of that free week post-graduation.

In Taru's mind, Hermione had felt her feelings. She just doesn't hate the program. She thinks it evil. Wrong. She told the CIA, not just her position for the FSK, but everything about the Red Room. About the girls. She provided information that has since detained three graduates and two high-ranking officers of the FSK.

As much as she wants to. As badly as she should. Hermione can't hate her, nor can she be angry. Because she understands being taken and subjugated to someone else's purpose. The only difference is that Hermione knows that was for the better. It was best she leave England and become what she is now. Taru never got that with the KGB. And as much as she cared for the girls, for Hermione, it wasn't enough to not betray them.

Hermione takes in Taru's quietness. She's not moving at all. She's not crying. She's perfectly still. Hermione enters her mind again, not to look but to feel her now in the present. She's not afraid. In fact, there's relief. She wants to rest. It's her time. Her future is meaningless with both the CIA and FSK, and she's suffered hell long enough.

Hermione plants a whisper in Taru's head.

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'll miss you._

She aims the gun and pulls the trigger.

* * *

 ** _The Next Morning..._**

For the first time in seven years, Hermione steps outside. Her senses are hit all at once, and she has to lean into the guard who's got a firm grip on her arm. The sun is too bright and scratches at her eyes and cheeks. The air overly fresh and smelling of autumn and asphalt. Her lungs want to burst. The noise from the city is deafening. Horns honking. Tires screeching. Engines growling. People talking and yelling over each other.

She puts a hand on her brow to block the rays as she's taken to the car. The car. The car will be silent, and the driver opens the door for her, so she can climb into the back seat. It's a nice vehicle, black and polished with leather seats. Katja is already in the car, and she's still as beautiful as the day Hermione met her. The woman is touching up her lipstick with the help of her compact mirror.

The guard closes the door, and Katja caps the tube. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not."

Katja closes her compact mirror to look at her. "This is necessary."

"I know."

The car starts, and they're moving. Hermione's eyes are glued to the window. There are so many people doing so many things. They all look different and act different. Some laugh and some don't say anything. There are those who walk and those who ride bicycles and drive cars.

It dawns on Hermione. She doesn't know how to do those last two things.

Her gaze snaps to the driver who lets out a bronchial cough and thinks she might be able to copilot a plane thanks to the computer simulations in the Red Room, but the basics of things. Like swimming. She hasn't swam since she was six years old.

"Katja," she says. "How exactly am I to do…what I'm supposed to do when I can't—"

"You'll be taught."

"…Elaborate please."

The woman throws her a smirk. "Simply finishing the program doesn't guarantee you a future with the FSK but does secure you training. You'll be training alongside other recruits. The training is a six-month endeavor. Unlike them, you will have an advantages they don't. Unlike you, they will have advantages you don't. You've graduated, yes, but your first day of school hasn't even begun yet."

"I'm more nervous about that than this." Hermione chuckles.

"You should be. You fail the six-month training, you're terminated and dumped into a shallow grave in the middle of Siberia."

Oh. "Have any of the other girls failed?"

Katja looks away from her to slip on a pair of sunglasses, the sun shining brightly on her face through the mirror. "Yes."

"So even with all the years in the Red Room—"

"The Red Room doesn't prepare you for everything," she hisses.

Hermione pauses, considering Katja's reaction. There's a bitterness. An anger in her tone. She's upset. Hurt even, that the Red Room can't be more than what it is. But there's only so much that can be handled in secret at the tourist attraction that is the Bolshoi Theatre.

"In your week, try and do things, all right?" Katja suggests. "But no sex. With the procedure, it will not be good. You'd be surprised how many girls regretted having not listened to me and the doctor."

Hermione nods. Despite her lie to Hannah and Natalia, sex was the furthest thing from her mind. Especially after with Taru…

Katja seems to read her mind.

"You did not disappoint in killing Taru," she says approvingly. "It's unfortunate you had to be the one to put her down. Not all the girls are as unlucky as you and have to kill someone they care about. It's easier when the test is a stranger."

"Maybe," starts Hermione, her eyes lowering. "It's easier to find fault in someone you know."

"As long as you don't know them _too_ well, I can see your thinking."

They pull up to hospital, and the driver gets out of the car to get the door for them. He lets Katja out first and then Hermione. The older woman circles the car and links her arm through Hermione's, guiding her through the front entrance. The atmosphere of people noisily zipping all over the place, disappearing into elevators and stairwells. Doors closing and dinging, and people talking. Babies in hysterics, and children sobbing as their mothers try to placate them.

That will never be her, she thinks, and she can't help but be grateful.

Katja coaxes Hermione to the greetings desk and speaks with the receptionist about Dr. Smymoi's 8 o'clock arriving for her procedure. The woman behind the desk nods slowly and picks up the phone, belaying the information onto the person on the other end of the line. She then hangs up and tells them they're good to go.

The two women take the elevator down to the lower level, and Katja takes the lead in taking Hermione down a barren and somewhat neglected hallway. She grimaces at the grime wedged up and into the sides where the floor meets the wall.

"I'm hoping the procedure will be done in a cleaner area," she comments. "I wouldn't be surprised if there were rats down here."

They arrive to a set of double doors with a telephone mounted to the wall. Katja picks it up and holds the device to her ear. After a moment, she tells whoever is listening that Smymoi's patient has arrived. The double doors open, and they are greeted by a nurse with a clipboard. The nurse dips her head at Katja and Hermione separately.

"Katja. Milas. Follow me," the woman instructs. She takes them into an examination room, a hospital gown folded neatly at the bottom of the examination chair. "Remove all of your clothing, Milas, and put on the gown."

"This is where I leave you," says Katja. "I'll be here to collect you when you are discharged."

The nurse and Katja leave, closing the door behind them. She strips and puts on the gown. Not five minutes later, team of clinicals come in and swarm her, from examining every inch of her and taking her blood to _shaving_ her. They then depart to make room for the ultrasound tech who gives her both a lower abdomen and vaginal scan. The tech leaves, and Hermione watches the clock on the wall, the big hand hitting six following numbers before Dr. Smymoi comes in, a woman in her mid-forties with faded ginger hair styled into an unflattering bowl cut.

Dr. Smymoi offers the ultrasound prints to Hermione, pointing a gloved finger at black and white static. "Your tubes are healthy. Strong. A surprise given how low your body fat percentage is so low. A shame, too, but what can you do? There's no reason the surgery shouldn't be a success. The room is being prepped. Do you have any questions?"

Hermione shakes her head.

"Refrain from intercourse for four to six weeks. Pregnancy is impossible without IVF. This is a very thorough procedure. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Good. Come out into the hallway and lay down on the gurney."

Hermione complies, her heart rate speeding the moment she's flat on the mattress. Two men in scrubs and lab coats wheel her down a long hallway and passed a set of open double doors. There's a surgical bed with a tray of shiny and sharp metal instruments and monitoring machines beside it. The two men stop her when she's parallel and a few feet away from the surgical bed. One of them make a remark how it's a shame she's doing this. She'd make pretty babies. She thinks about hocking a spit wad in his face, but he's got a mask on her quick. Her vision goes dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Guess who gets a one-on-one with Bucky this chapter! *wink, wink* Let me know if it's everything you thought it'd be.**

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Reward**

 **Sokovia 1997**

The facility isn't quite how she remembers it. The structure has aged and when Hermione rolls down the window of the backseat, she studies the dreariness of it. She recalls it looking foreboding and strong, but that was a different time. The unruliness of Sokovia has taken its toll on everything. Such new countries are so hard to handle.

She's not brought to the parking garage like she'd been when she was seven. Instead, she brought to the front entrance where a guard is there to open the door and greet her. He offers his hand, and she takes it, climbing out of the backseat.

"Kristof?" she inquires. "Is that you?"

That man chuckles warmly. "It is I that should be asking if this is you? My, my. How lovely you've become. The Baron asked me specifically to be the one to see to you. He wants to you to feel at ease. He's so proud of you, 17."

"Milas," she corrects gently.

He dips his chin. "Milas. Of course." He crooks his fingers at another guard and points at the trunk. "Get her suitcase."

"It's only one. I've acquired little over the years," she tells him.

"I'm sure that's not true." He grins. "Most baggage we acquire in life cannot be locked away in a trunk. Come. The Baron's been beside himself with excitement. He's waited so long for this day."

"Me, too." Hermione is hot on Kristof's heels. Oh, she can't believe it's finally happening. Her reward is finally due, and she can't wait. The Baron promised her painless power. No more headaches. No more exhaustion.

They enter the facility, and she's taken to The Baron's office. The Red Skull's portrait is still there in all his glory, and Kristof knocks on the door. The barrier swings open, and The Baron smiles broadly, and Hermione can't help but think he's aged somewhat, though his features are still not unappealing. He's only his mid-thirties, she guesses.

"Milas," he says pointedly. He clasps her shoulders and squeezes. "Look at you. So beautiful. I knew you would be. How did the surgery go? Were there any complications?"

"No, sir"

"Are you in pain still?"

Hermione is hesitant in her answer. "A little."

"Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. Come in. Sit. Let us have lunch together. We'll catch up on the necessaries."

They eat at the same table where he forced her to kill that rabbit. She shoves the memory away and focuses on her meal. It's much fattier and richer than she's used to. Her tongue only tingles in delight for a few moments from the pork and butter-heavy cuisine before she has to put her fork down and focus on her salad and tea which are both refreshing and phenomenal.

"Not to your liking?" asks The Baron.

"It's delicious, but I haven't had red meat since I left here."

"I understand you were under a very strict diet. The orthodontist I arranged expressed concern you were being starved."

"We all were sometimes, but usually we didn't go more than two days without food."

"How do they expect strong soldiers if they don't feed them properly?" The question isn't meant to be answered. The Baron laughs and pours himself another glass of wine. He then offers the bottle to her, and she shakes her head.

"No, thank you."

"No alcohol, either, I take it." He sets the bottle down.

"I had a glass of champagne after the first part of my initiation."

"And how did that go?"

"It was bubbly and upset my stomach."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant." She smiles blandly. "And it went fine."

"You didn't hesitate?"

She nods. "I did, but then I reminded myself it wasn't for them. It was for _us_."

The Baron salutes her with his glass of wine and a prideful grin. "Hail HYDRA."

She clinks her teacup against the glass. "Hail HYDRA."

They both sip from their respected drinks and set them down to return to their meal. As The Baron cuts into his meat, he informs her of some news.

"The Soldier is here. For a short time."

"Is another being submitted to the program?"

The Baron sighs, setting down his utensils. "Unfortunately, the program had to be put on hold." He then adds. "Indefinitely."

"A waste of resources."

"You have no idea. The cost to fail in the end was terribly high. And risky. I doubt you heard anything of worth in the Red Room and this wasn't in any message I sent you through Dr. Eli, but Howard Stark is dead. His son and the company's board have taken control of the company but has nothing to do with S.H.I.E.L.D. He doesn't even know about it. His father kept him in the dark about everything. It's a shame. We could use his expertise."

"Mmm. So I have a question. Why let me know the Soldier's here? Am I going to meet him or…?"

"My dear, you're going to fight him."

"Excuse me?" She can't have heard right.

"Twice, I might add. The first time this evening. The second time, later this week."

"But, sir—"

"You will not speak unless it's of gratitude. You have no idea what I had to do in getting this arranged. He is a high valued asset of HYDRA and convincing headquarters to wake him up and borrow him to merely spar with a trainee at my facility was no easy feat."

"Trainee?"

"Regardless of graduating both this program and from the Red Room, you are still considered such."

Hermione exhales loudly and attempts to carefully get her words right. "It's not that I'm ungrateful, it's just he's a scientifically enhanced super soldier, and I never did beat Natalia Romanova…at anything. And she was just a girl."

"I won't let him kill you."

"He might not do it on purpose." She drums her fingers on the table. "Please just tell me this isn't my reward. Because dying or close to it doesn't match what you told me."

"It's a part of it. Tonight, I want you to show me you've earned that reward."

"I'm going to lose, sir."

"So did Josef Schlagel and all the other brats we threw at him. I'm not concerned you'll lose. Of course you will. Look at you. Tonight what I want to see. What I want to know is how long it takes _him_ to win. You've been training nonstop for eleven years. If you go down in the first two minutes, I'll be sorely disappointed."

She swallows and puts a hand to her lower stomach. "If he gets me in the gut in those two minutes, I will go down."

"Then don't let him."

* * *

Following lunch, The Baron takes her to a room which is nothing like the one she left here or in Moscow. It's an actual bedroom with a queen canopy bed, a mahogany vanity dresser set , a walk-in closet, and an en suite bathroom. At the sight of it, she turns to The Baron with a perplexed expression painted on her face.

"I had this room built for my wife," he says.

"Wife?" She arches her brows. He's never worn a ring in the time she's known him and while she was here, it was like he never left. He was constantly on site. But then again, if his wife was here…

Huh.

She wanders the room, resisting to flop on the bed and test the lushness of it. Always a spring mattress she's dealt with.

"Both she and my son no longer visit as often as they used to."

Hermione looks over her shoulder at him, surprised he's telling her this. Like they're close friends. What surprises her more is that he's no longer at the threshold but right behind her. She had been so entranced by the idea of sleeping on a comfortable mattress, she hadn't noticed he crept up on her.

"Sir, is there something you need?" she asks despite knowing the answer. She may have spent her adolescent years with girls, but the Red Room did prepare and inform her of situations like this. In all honesty, she's a little flattered but more bewildered than anything. She's never seen him as a father figure. He's a tad too young for that, but she got the impression he's seen her as nothing more than another child to send off on HYDRA's behalf. Sure, she got more attention because of her abilities, but the attention wasn't special or pleasant.

Then again, she'd been a child. She's eighteen now, and he has seemed to notice.

"I think there is." He takes a step closer, and she turns around to face him. He puts his hands on her waist and ducks to press his cheek against hers. Her heart picks up in pace, and her skin tingles when he thumbs her jawline. He cups her face and goes to kiss her when she whispers, "I'm still healing."

In more ways than one. Taru is still fresh on her mind.

The breath of his chuckle hits her lips and then he pulls away. "I can make you comfortable when you've completed your training. The FSK. They will not pay you the way you deserve. You'll get a cut from HYDRA wired into a private account, but even then, you'll deserve more. I can arrange a flat for you to live. Among other things."

"In exchange for," she pauses, "my company."

"I promise not to visit so often your cover is compromised."

Hermione scans the room, liking the space and luxury and privacy. She has been afforded nothing of the sort the last eleven years, and she doubts the FSK will provided such provisions for her post-training. She'll likely be rooming with another agent or several which could be risky. She managed seven years in the Red Room but this would be different. She'd be in the field and quite possibly doing side jobs for HYDRA. Accepting The Baron's offer to be his mistress could prove worthwhile.

Biting her lip, she touches The Baron's tie, rubbing her thumb over the silk, and she looks up at him through her lashes. "We'll see. _After_ my reward."

There's a flash of annoyance in his eyes, but it gives way to moderate respect. He smirks. "I have good reason to believe you won't be disappointed." He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. "And did I not promise to make you unstoppable?"

"It got me through some rough times these past seven years." She wraps her hand around his tie and tugs _hard_ , making him hunch as to better get him to her level. "And if I'm disappointed, sir, I'll make a promise to make _your_ next seven years unbearable."

Lust washes over The Baron's face, and she has to guess he's a kinky bastard which makes her stomach churn in distaste. Not for him in particular, but she can imagine the weird shit he's into. She can't really say she's happily anticipating his companionship, but she doesn't look forward in going longer without comfort.

"I have no doubt you'll make do on your promise." He pats her hand, and she releases her grip. He adjusts the tie, clearing his throat. "Rest up. You'll be up against the Soldier tonight. There are trainers in the closet. They should fit you. I'll see you soon, my darling Milas."

He leaves her room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Staring up at the balcony she once looked down from years before, Hermione clenches her hands and swallows. She'd be a fool not to be afraid. She remembers quite clearly how easy it was for the Winter Soldier to kick Josef across this very room. Her hands come to rest on her stomach which is still very tender. Whatever she does, she can't let him land a blow there.

The memory of catapulting 54 across the room emerges, and she wonders if she has it in her again to do it. Some of the unique things she's done, she's only been able to do once. One-hit wonders. Like what she did with Robert on that boat after he ripped apart her _Lord of the Flies_ book. She…froze him somehow. She hadn't been able to succeed even replicating that with animals when working with The Baron.

Soon. Soon she'll be able to do it again and possibly more. _Hopefully_. She'll make good on her promise. If whatever The Baron planned for doesn't satisfy, she'll make his life a living hell. HYDRA or not, she won't forgive him.

Speaking of, The Baron enters the area, the Winter Soldier in tow. Behind him are several of Hermione's old teachers, but there are also some new faces, as well. They come up to her and politely shake her hand and congratulate her on completing the Red Room program. Ms. Bērziņš is among them. There are wisps of gray in her hair now.

The teachers stand off to the side as does The Baron. She had hoped for a few more words of encouragement but what good would that really do. He already gave her his own version of a pep talk earlier.

She inhales, filling her lungs with as much air as they could handle, and rests her gaze on the stoic-faced man who hasn't aged a day since she last saw him last. His hair is still a brown mangled mop, and his eyes are still a deep set of crystal blue. He's not as tall as she remembers, but he's not short either. He's…imposing. Perhaps it's his armor. Or just his vibranium arm.

His face is still handsome, but his expression is void of opinion. He's neither surprised or expectant in seeing his opponent. He doesn't call out to those on the sidelines saying she's too small. Too feminine. He expresses no worry in his body language or features that he'll likely kill her.

"Hello," she tells him with a respectful nod, her tone perfectly neutral. "My name is Milas. I've heard much about you. It's an honor, sir."

One thing she was not taught in this facility was etiquette. The Red Room taught her being lethal was no excuse in being impolite. Always show respect to your opponents. You are potentially depriving them of their lives. It's a courtesy she thinks HYDRA should learn.

The Winter Soldier replies.

He replies by attacking.

* * *

She wakes up on a gurney in the infirmary and everywhere _hurts_ like she got hit by a fucking car. Her right arm. It's broken. So is her left ankle and right femur. Definitely some bruised ribs, too. Ms. Bērziņš is beside her, hooking up an IV bag. The woman sees she's awake and offers a grim smile.

"You broke a few of his ribs and his wrist, Milas. Everyone was impressed." She displays a needle and pumps the contents into her IV line. "This is for the pain. It'll also knock you out, so we can set your—"

Hermione's out.

When she wakes up it's because her veins feel like they have electric fire coursing through them and her bones are shifting and her muscles are contracting and swelling. Every capillary wants to explode. Every pore wants to bleed. She lets out a scream, and she wants to remove herself from her own body to kick the pain. Oh, God, it's other worldly. Hellish. Like her mother's God has officially forsaken her and the devil has finally come to collect and rake his venomous talons into her soul.

Through the dense fog of pain, she can make out she's strapped to a cot. She rubs and jerks against them, feeling one of them give. The one around her legs. The ones binding her arms go next, but the one around her middle is resilient, and she lets out a howl of anguish. The lights above her burst and glass showers down. The monitor beside her fritzes and the frame cracks, sparks flying out of the chipped chasms.

Finally.

 _Finally_ , after what has to have been hours of torture, the pain starts to subside and _fast_. Endorphins flood her system. It's so pleasurable. It's like she was plucked from lava and buried in the Arctic. Her surroundings come into focus, and she can finally breathe. Her erratic heart slows, and she relaxes, melting into the firm pad of the cot. Her eyes drift close, but she doesn't fall asleep. She's not tired. She's just…not ready. Her blood is static, and she's unsure how to handle that.

The sound of a door opening and light pouring into the dark room causes her to peel her eyelids back and watch The Baron and Ms. Bērziņš come into the room. Ms. Bērziņš  
grabs her wrist and then fingers her neck, catching her pulse. The Baron crunches broken glass beneath his shoes in getting to Hermione's other side. He rubs her forehead and then cups her cheek.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"What did you do?" she asks, breathless.

"I injected you with a modified version of Dr. Erskine's formula. The abilities you were born with, they're in your DNA. This formula is to allow you access to your full potential. It has strengthened every part of you, enabling you to project your powers to their greatest extent."

Hermione stares.

"Say something, Milas."

"You've made me into a weapon."

"For HYDRA, yes. I plan to show you off to Gideon Malick and Alexander Pierce in a few days. They've been waiting a lot longer than you have about that reward. To them, this is a thirty-year investment."

She frowns, at him and at the band over her middle securing her. She yanks on it, the binding breaking from the buckle with ease. She gasps in surprise, shocked at her strength and toned forearm attached to her hand. Her eyes run over her body, and she's astounded at the changes. Gone is the supine, ballerina physique. In place is a more athletic form, and she feels…

Starved.

"I need to eat. _Now._ "


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: The next A/N will be longer, and there will be some thank yous and comments concerning comments. For now, enjoy the chapter and apologies for any errors.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Unleashed**

Two bowls of porridge, three pieces of toast, and four apples. Following that, Hermione can think clearly, and her shakes are gone. Now. Now, she needs a mirror. She gets up from the table, abandoning The Baron in favor of her bedroom. He follows her there, and she opens the closet door to study her reflection. She's…taller. Not by much but a couple of inches at least. The muscles in her arms are more defined, and the material of her leggings stretch thinly over the muscles in her thighs and calves. She lifts the hem of her t-shirt and pokes at her lower abdomen. She no longer hurts from the surgery, and the bruising and breaks the Winter Soldier gifted her are gone.

Her fingers brush over the raised skin of her ved'ma scar which has faded some thanks to the serum, but unlike her apple scar, she sometimes experiences phantom pains from it. There were times where she'd wake in the middle of the night while at the Red Room from a nightmare—a dripping wet and ghostly Dmitri hovering over her bed with a dagger dripping of blood in hand. Her lower side would sting or have a deep, pinching itch.

Her apple scar is faint, too, but it's still there. A thin, red shape. She traces it, thinking of when she did it and why. It's funny. She remembers digging the screw into her skin, so she wouldn't forget her parents loved her. But at the time, she couldn't recall how they feared her and wanted her gone. How had she forgotten that?

"You're beautiful," The Baron comments from the doorway.

"The physical changes," she starts, "will take time getting used to. But it's the least of my concerns."

"What do you need?"

She turns to face him. "A safe place to understand my limits. The old sparring room in the basement will do. I only have a few days to get all this…" She shakes her hands. Her blood still feels like hot static, and the light on the ceiling flickers. "Under control."

"What else?"

He's eager, and she gets what he wants her to request next. She doesn't have to read his mind, even though she knows she could do it so easily now. The static in her veins thrum, and she rests her gaze on his forehead. The layers between the skin and brain might as well be tissue paper. He is tissue paper. They all are.

"I need a person."

"We have plenty of students—"

"I want the Soldier."

"Milas—"

"I need someone who won't break easy."

"You're going to fight him again soon enough. In front of a more critical audience, I may add. You'll be giving him an advantage by introducing him to your new abilities."

"You can wipe him clean when I'm finished with him."

The Baron gives her a nervous look. "It's possible I can arrange it."

"I promise I won't kill him."

"See that you don't. Or you'll be replacing him." He then adds, "And if you thought the last eleven years were hell. The Soldier has been on active duty for over _fifty._ "

"Duly noted."

Hermione goes to the dresser in search of a new shirt, finding a tank top that should suit her well. As she peels off the one she's wearing, The Baron says, "Try not to…stir things up too much for him."

"Hm?"

"You're excellent at getting into people's heads. I see no reason why you should need to practice your already perfected talent on him."

She smirks at him over her shoulder. "Are you afraid I'll see something I'm not supposed to? The only thing he'll remember is what he had for breakfast. Unless you didn't feed him. God knows he's wiped clean often enough. I'm almost feel bad for him if I'm not certain it's for the best." Her smirk widens. "Speaking from experience."

She smooths out the wrinkles of his wife's shirt, pointedly ignoring The Baron's unamused face.

"You remember, don't you?"

"I got hit in the head with a ballet barre not long into it. It rattled somethings loose, but yes, I remember everything."

"Perhaps we should—"

"I will _never_ get in that thing again. Do you understand?"

"I only want what's best for you."

"No, you want what you think is best for HYDRA, and this really isn't it. I'm loyal. Remembering my parents locked me up and forgot me isn't going to change anything."

She bends down to retie her shoes, missing The Baron's satisfied and relieved grin.

"Right. That's what they did, didn't they? Their loss. My gain." He clears his throat. "I do wonder…if you plan on finding them in the future. So many of those who left here yearned to track down their parents."

"I see no reason to."

"Not even to make them pay for abandoning you at that institute?"

"I've made peace with what they've done. I doubt I'd reach nirvana doing anything more."

The Baron sighs as she stretches. Her muscles ache a little, and she needs to loosen up before going head to head with the Soldier again.

"I was hoping," he comes up behind her, massaging her upper back and shoulders, "we could have some time to ourselves."

Whatever he's doing, she can't lie. She's enjoying it very much. No one's rubbed _anything_ of hers since Taru. "As tempting as your proposition is, I really need to do this. But when I'm finished, I promise you'll get what you want."

He grips her shoulder, coaxing her to face him. "I want you to want it, too, Milas."

She pinches the lapels of his blazer, smiling bitterly. "Don't you concern yourself with what I want. You never have before." She leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek and whispers into his ear, "Now get me the Winter Soldier."

And then something odd happens. His body stiffens and backs away. Her arms fall, and she watches him march out towards the hallway, saying, "Right away, my darling."

She stares, confused, at the empty space and then gasps softly, bringing her fingers to her mouth. Did she just…? Oh, God, she did it! She actually did it! She forced him! A person and not an animal!

Hermione tries not to get carried away and even attempts to write off The Baron's eagerness as circumstance, but he had really been too eager and too mechanical. He walked out of the room without a second glance at her, and mixed emotions bombard her. It's both thrilling and terrifying. She clasps her fingers and rubs her temples with her thumbs as she paces.

Unstoppable.

Yes, she would be. By word of mouth she could potentially command an army at her will.

Her thumbs dig deeper, and she shakes her head. No, she can't let this go to her head. The Baron made her into a weapon, yes, but those with power who overstep their bounds become arrogant. Prideful. Stupid. In history, even the most elite in power were cut down.

Hermione thinks…no. Hermione knows out of all things she may be able to do now, inflicting her will on someone with such ease is her most dangerous ability. She _can't_ let The Baron find out what she did to him and if that's impossible, she won't allow him to tell anyone. And she knows he always wanted her to be able to do this, to control a person, but he likely didn't mean to place himself as a victim.

He wants her to be unstoppable, not uncontrollable. One becomes uncontrollable—like the other Winter Soldiers—they apparently get postponed indefinitely.

Turning to face the mirror again, she inspects herself thoroughly and gives herself a firm talking to. "You are loyal to HYDRA, but that does not make them loyal to you. Give them no reason to be afraid of you. Give them no reason to kill you."

* * *

Outside of the old sparring room, The Baron is there with the Soldier. She walks up to The Baron and frames his face with her hands. "You will not ever inform anyone or anything I can control minds."

She's sees something she didn't catch before. A thin, white film glazes over his eyes and then return to normal. "Never, Milas."

The Soldier's usually blank and stoic expression _twitches_ , and he blinks at her. He frowns deeply, and she clasps his head quick before he can push her off. "You saw and heard _nothing_ of what I just said to The Baron."

The thin, white filmy glaze seeps over his eyes, too. "I saw and heard nothing."

She lets go of his head, and he shuts his eyes for a moment before reopening them. She bypasses him to get into the sparring room. "I'm ready when you are, Soldier."

The moment he steps into the sparring zone, she attacks. At first, she holds back on her abilities, wanting to know if she can beat him hand-to-hand now with her new strength and pronounced agility. There's a satisfaction in it, too. Especially when she's not put down and broken in three minutes like before. It's exhilarating she can keep going. The big hand on the clock skips number after number, but soon reality sets in. She good. Really good. But he's better, and he does manage to get the upper hand and throw her across the room against the wall.

Sweat drips down her face, and her back smarts from being thrown like a ragdoll. The Soldier is coming at her, and she needs to think fast. The time for a decent right hook and high-kick are off the table. It's time to see what she can do, and she needs to decide what.

In the few seconds she's got, she mentally skims over all the things she thought herself capable of but hadn't been able to do. And then she remembers 54. Or more precisely, 54's memory of her father teleporting.

Hermione closes her eyes, the Soldier's metal hand clenched in a fist and flying towards her. She pictures the space behind him and sees herself there. She wants to be there. She _needs_ to be there. There's an unyielding metal fist coming for her face—

The next sensation Hermione felt, well, she almost thinks she'd prefer the punch to the face. Every particle of her being felt like it is both being squished and spread apart. Like she's been shoved into a plastic baggy that's too small, and she's being smashed. When the sensation fades, she is indeed behind the Soldier who's fist connects with the wall where'd she had just been. She falls to the floor and dry heaves.

He whirls around and his brows furrow. "What in the hell?" he says in English.

His choice of language and accent is enough to knock her nausea. Wait? He's _American_?

He recovers quick from the shock of her jump. He's about to punch her again, but that teleporting idea was bad idea. She did it. But, God, the cost of it…

She regrets everything.

She raises her hand at him. "Hold on," she says, choosing to speak in English, as well.

He doesn't listen. He takes that swing at her, and she rolls to dodge it. She swivels her legs to kick behind his knee, but he catches her ankle and uses it to throw her. She lands on her stomach, the wind knocked out of her _again_ , and then he's on her. He's got the full weight of his body and armor pressing down on her, and his metal hand clasps around the front of her neck, squeezing her throat.

Oh, God! He's not just restricting air, he's _crushing!_ Wasn't he given orders to not…?

Her vision swirls, and she wants to throw him like she did with 54 but reacts on instinct. Make them see their worst memory. It's not something she ever had the heart to do when sparring with Taru and Natalia, but with the others, she had no qualms. Her hand flies up behind her and buries her fingers deep in his hair, planting the palm against his cranium and shoving herself into his head.

The journey in finding his worst memory is like being on a rowboat on a sea of raging, electrical waters at night with a lighthouse far off in the distance. She sees almost nothing but glimpses, and those glimpses are not much to work with. There's death, death, and more death. Every once in a while, there's just fighting. But she only sees bodies. A lot of them. And then she comes to a blockade. She rams against it over and over again because the Soldier has not loosened his grip, and she's running out of time. The blockade chips away, and she's sees a bright light and Dr. Zola. Her belly then flies into her throat because she's falling, and there's a train above her and a man reaching out screaming a name that echoes off the snowy, mountain wall.

The Soldier's grip flies from her neck, and he's flailing off her like she's on fire. She collapses and rolls onto her bag, her hand flying to her throat as it shutters to gulp in sweet, sweet air. She coughs and stares at the Soldier who's on all fours and, like her, gasping for breath but she expects for an entirely different reason.

"What did you do?" he growls.

She _feels_ the feral coming off him and puts up a placating hand. "Calm down. We're going to fix this."

He lifts his head and snarls at her. "Don't touch me! Get away from me!"

"It's going to be all right, Soldier."

"Soldier," he murmurs and he gets to his feet. She follows suit, checking behind her, hoping a hundred guards will show up and do their goddamned job.

"That's right," she encourages.

He looks from side-to-side, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead. "I can't…" He squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth. "Where's Steve?"

Hermione rehashes the last image she saw in his mind. The man on the train. Steve Rogers. That had been Steve Rogers. Searching around the room, she tries to find something to knock him out with, and there's nothing.

"I'm going to go find him. He can't be far," she says.

The moment she turns, there's a lurch in her peripheral, and the Winter Soldier is coming at her with a knife. She grabs his wrist and rebreaks it with an unnatural twist. He curses in English at her. She then balls her fist and punches him in the nose and then the larynx. He drops the knife and brings her wrists and the sides of clenched hands to his temples, hitting him hard. He stumbles backwards and then finally falls, disoriented but still conscious, the stubborn arsehole.

For a moment, she considers him and her abilities. Maybe she can make him pass out or fall asleep or, hell, stay there and not move a hair. She did that once with Robert. She froze him in place, but no. She doesn't want to do _that_. It took all night for that to wear off, and Robert wet himself the moment he shook loose. The sleep part, though. That might work.

She kneels down beside him, and he tries to get away from her, and she shakes her head. "You lost this round."

There's a wheezing sound coming out of his mouth. He's trying to speak, but she broke his larynx. His lips are pressing together like he's trying to make the 'p' sound. She skims his thoughts and hears, _'Please. Let me go. I don't want to go back in the chair. Kill me if you have to, but don't make me kill again. I can't. I can't.'_

"Milas!"

The Baron comes into the room, a few guards behind him. He looks from her to the Soldier with a broad grin. "You did it. Wonderful. I knew you could." He motions to the guards and then to the Soldier. One of the guards takes out his tranq gun and shoots him in the neck.

"Sir?"

"Take him to the chair," he orders the guards.

Hermione closes her eyes, an uncomfortable sensation settling on her chest. It's heavy and like when she killed Taru. Guilt. It's guilt. But worse. She was able to relieve Taru from her hell and couldn't do the same for the Soldier.

"Sir?" she repeats.

"Hm?"

She climbs to her feet. "You know that thing you told me not do?"

The pleased expression fades into fury. "What did you do?"

"I'm sorry." She stares down at her feet. "He almost killed me, and I reacted on instinct."

He takes a step forward, his mouth set in a grim line. "What did you see?"

"Enough." She folds her arms and continues, "I had no idea that he was—"

"Do you have any idea the damage you've done?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. "You're going to slap him in that fucking chair, and it'll be like he never even met me when I fight him again tomorrow."

"You're thinking of him as a person with feelings. Stop. He's one of HYDRA's top assets. Scientifically engineered to aid us and to better our organization. Without the Soldier, do you want to know where we'd be? He's necessary, and I thought the Red Room would scrape this emotional nonsense you seem to cling to like the weepy, irritating little girl who came to me all those years ago."

"He wants to die!"

"He is a weapon and will be purged of his wants."

Hermione opens her mouth and then snaps it shut. "Am I not a weapon, as well? What about my wants?"

"You already clarified it doesn't matter what you want, didn't you?"

She says nothing.

"You're a servant of HYDRA. We all are, but each of us have different parts to play. You know they're not all glamorous but are for the greater good. The world is chaos. War and bloodshed and unfairness and inequality. Disorder. It's up to us to enforce compliance, so there can be balance."

* * *

Not even an hour later, Hermione watches from the sidelines as the Soldier is anchored to the chair and shocked for what seems like hours on end. His screams of despair echo off the walls.

She suddenly has the urge for a cigarette. She hasn't smoked since before her surgery but now seems like a good time as any to hit up Kristof for the goods.

There's something…off. And it's not just the Winter Soldier. It's growing up and coming back here to the facility. It's getting to know The Baron on a more intimate level. It's scrubbing the rose-colored glass and stepping closer to try and see past the purpose she always thought she had. Because for the first time since she was little, she feels _doubt_.

To Be Continued…


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you fateforgotme, k8lyn01, firesong23, Guest, Margareitha Malfoy-Nott, meldz, Honestly don't you two read, Littlemissmoffey, craaazyaboutMalfoy, Guest for the reviews. I'm glad you're liking it, and I'm so grateful for the feedback.**

 **So let's touch base. This story's timeline ranges from 1987-2016. I could probably go farther than that, but every story has to end sometime. Fear not, though, we're still in 1997. So we're not even partying yet like it's 1999.**

 **I got a couple of comments on Natasha's and Hermione's future interactions. I'm hoping I won't disappoint you guys when they happen, but I'm planning for some epic conversations and adventures.**

 **Got a question when she'll meet the Avengers. I have her scheduled to meet a few. Sorry. That's all I'm going to say.**

 **Also, sorry to those who jumped into this hoping for a love story between Hermione and someone else. Though I have plans for her to become romantically involved with an Avenger of your choosing, it's not the point of the story and may not develop in the way you hoped it would. Be that as it may, I hope you still stick around because not every story is a fairy tale stringed up with a cookie-cutter clean happily ever after.**

 **The Avenger in questions-who Hermione is looking to be involved with-is Bucky at this point. I've got a lot of shout-outs for him, but there is still time to cast in your vote.**

 **Again, thank you, readers and followers and reviewers for your support. You're now good to enjoy Chapter 12!**

 **P.S. Can you spot the foreshadow to a future character?**

* * *

 **Chapter 12: The Bracelet**

Movement comes from the other side of the bed, and Hermione now knows The Baron is awake. The lamp switches on, and she decides then they're passed…no, she's passed such formalities in calling him The Baron. They had sex last night. Three times. Hermione's not exactly sure what she expected with him in bed, but she'd been surprised nonetheless. He's not a half-bad lay, and there were times she wanted to address him in the thick of it but couldn't fathom calling him _sir_. It's time, she decides, to just call him Baron. His birthname. Mr. Von Strucker in public.

She reaches to her bedside table and flicks on her own lamp and rolls over. "I'm calling you Baron from now on. When it's just us. Mr. Von Strucker when people are around."

His chuckle is throaty, and he reaches behind him to squeeze her thigh through the sheets. "Mr. Pierce and Mr. Malick will be here soon. See that you impress them at breakfast."

"I thought I was supposed to do that tonight with the Soldier."

"Not all of your talents require a victim, sweetheart. I think Mr. Malick will enjoy your tea trick and Mr. Pierce is a tulip man, but the table setting only has orchids. Perhaps you can dabble at the ambiance."

She frowns. "I could do those things before all _this_."

He leans over the mattress to cup her face. "These men have put me in charge of this project. Of you. It's a thirty-year wait for them, like I said, but they have no idea the extent of your powers. They might be…alarmed." His eyes dart all over the room because after taking an hour smoke and tea break with Kristof in the security booth outside last night, she came back to her room and…redecorated. She used her experience of changing milk into teas and pens into pencils in transforming the bedroom.

Baron hadn't particularly liked the yellow custard walls and light blue boarders, but so what? She likes them. Bright, spring colors are soothing. Happy for her. They remind her of her mum's Easter dresses for church and the tulle atrocities she'd been stuffed in. Those memories are of good times and just because they turned sour, Hermione's not going to allow them to reflect her likes and dislikes.

Still. The yellow and blue are starting to fade, and the comforter and sheets have already changed to their original pattern. The bedframe is losing its mahogany exterior and slowly reverting back to polished cedar. The bookshelf she tampered with has shrunk a bit, too. Damn. Then the tub probably did the same.

Hermione gets out of bed and throws on a silk robe, checking her reflection in the vanity. It looks like Baron tried to mark her up well and good. She rubs at the faded hickeys on her neck and then makes a face at the teeth imprint. It's healing like the other blemishes but it might not do so in time for breakfast. The last thing she wants is Alexander Pierce and Gideon Malick to find out she's Baron's mistress.

She purses her lips unhappily and circles the teeth mark, thinking off the layers of coverup she'd have to apply. Maybe a scarf. Something to hide…

And like that, the bruise is gone.

She gasps and leans closer to the mirror. Impossible! She presses at the skin and the mark reappears. She furrows her brows and concentrates on wanting it to be hidden like before and lets out an astounded laugh when it's gone.

"What's so funny?" Baron asks as he throws on his boxers. His back is to her, so he can't see what she's doing.

"Uh…nothing," she lies. "Just laughing at all the places you got me last night. You're an animal."

He smiles cockily at her over his shoulder and rounds the bed, widening the opening of her robe when he reaches her. He rakes his gaze hungrily over her exposed skin, possessiveness make his eyes glitter, and she wonders if she'll ever think or look at him the same way he does towards her. She's not…indifferent. Like she said before, she's flattered. He's handsome, powerful, and an excellent provider of opportunity and comfort. She's spreading her legs because of those last three things, especially. Perhaps the slice of doubt she's been having will fade as she climbs the ranks in HYDRA and actually gets a clearer view of the bigger picture.

She'll impress Pierce and Malick and later others as Baron introduces her to the others in higher positions. She wants to know what they know and do what they do. People respect them. They're leaders and entrepreneurs, and people follow them because they know brilliant thinkers when they see them. She wants to be that. She wants to be more than a weapon. That's too easy, and she hates easy things. In an hour, she could have the whole facility at her beck and call, but she wants to people to willingly follow her.

During her time with Kristof last night in booth, she did a lot of thinking. She thought of the Soldier and the doubt and her upbringing. She thought of her years in the Red Room, and the lethal young ladies produced there. What she dwelt on the most, though, were the flaws in all of those situations and how she could make them better.

She wants to lead HYDRA. Be the main head when all these old men keel over and die. Children won't have to be taken and displaced. There will be no force of compliance. People will want what she has to provide because they see it's the better way.

"Why are you smiling so big?" Baron brushes the swell of her breast.

"Because I loved last night." Another lie. She's beginning to like lying to him.

"Me, too. But I may have got carried away. Apologies. Your first time shouldn't have been so rough."

She chuckles and closes the flaps of the robe, folding her arms and throwing him a sly smirk. "It can be debated whether it was or not."

Baron's grin slips, and his nostrils flare. "I was under the impression there weren't boys in the Red Room. I find it plausible there were male guards…" He grabs her arms and gets in her face. "Did you let what of those bastards touch you?"

"Oh, you." She breaks free from his hold and snorts. " _No._ I had a girlfriend. We did things, all right?"

His mouth falls open, and now he resembles a gaping fish, and she's sees her words settling. He blinks once he's processed and then goes to grab her arms again, this time gently rubbing with his thumbs.

"What kind of things?"

She resists the urge to roll her eye but fears the shear velocity would knock her back to last week. "Things I shouldn't discuss so close to breakfast with your employers."

Disappointment mars his features, and then he asks, "But do you like women? Because last night—"

"A woman, and I did enjoy last night."

"What did she look like?"

He's trying to imagine it, the pervert.

"Doesn't matter now."

"Are you too still in touch?"

She faces the closet, scowling at the clothes. "No."

"Milas?"

"Hm?" She searches for something appropriate to wear for breakfast. Not too casual as to avoid being disrespectful, but not too fancy.

"At another time farther down the road, would you like if I brought a friend to join us in our…activities?"

"I want to talk about this later. You should get ready."

"All right, all right." He slaps her bum. "I get it. I'll leave. See you soon."

"You, too."

The door closes, and she lets out a breath. Her teasing wasn't supposed to fire back at her and now Taru is fresh in her mind again.

Hermione decides on a Maison Margiela dress, smartly cut and professional as well as feminine. She lays her choice on the back of the vanity chair to go shower. Under the hot water, she practices how she'll speak and respond to Pierce and Malick. She'll be charming. The Red Room taught her skills of being a delightful converser. It's time to put those skills to the test.

Hermione paints on a smile when walking into Baron's office, not showing any of the surprise she felt when seeing him, Pierce, and Malick already at the table. Their plates are near picked clean from and as she approaches closer, their mugs of coffee are half full. They've been at it for a while, it appears.

Without her.

Apparently her meeting time with them is different than Baron's.

"Hello," she greets.

Malick is first to rush at her with an extended hand. He's a proud looking man, and when he speaks his voice is gravely deep, but his Russian need work.

"Sir, please, you can speak English," she tells him. She pats the large hand squeezing hers.

"Thank you." He smiles gratefully. "You're English is very good. Is that a trace of…Surrey I hear."

"Mr. Von Strucker nor the Red Room managed to scrub it."

"Ah, I must've forgot your origins, young lady, and I'm surprised you even remember them." He clocks a cold, toothy grin at Baron, a reprimand promised in his eyes.

Hermione is quick to reply, wishing to save Baron from any embarrassment or punishment. "I remember an unhappy household. My mother a verbally abusive zealot and an ambivalent and mostly absent father. Those memories are not something I dwell on in all honesty. The present and the future hold much more importance. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Von Strucker and Mr. Pierce?"

She sees relief flood Baron's face, and Mr. Pierce dabs his smirking lips with his cloth napkin. He gets up from the table and joins Malick's side, showing him his own hand. He's a lean man in his gray suit with a proud, upright spine and bright blue eyes promising adventure and opportunity. She suspects him to be a quite the heartthrob back in the day.

"I couldn't agree more, Ms. Abegglen. Please sit down and join us."

"Thank you." She sits down opposite of the two men, next to Baron. She fills her plate from the trays in the middle of the table, hunger plaguing her. The last seven years had taught her to control her hunger, to keep it in a stasis state when necessary. With the new changes to her body, though, she can't ignore her empty stomach. Last night after her last round with Baron, she had to sneak down into the kitchen and plow through the cupboards and icebox.

Malick quirks his lips at her piled-high plate. "Your metabolism his very high now, I take it."

"Yes."

The breakfast choices are unusual, but she recognizes them as American. Sugar and salt and fat dance on her tongue, and her stomach sings praise. She butters what's called a biscuit—not the kind she knows from her childhood—and spreads strawberry preserves on it. The eggs are scrambled and fluffy and have a salty, heady echo of sharp cheddar. There are blueberry pancakes, as well, and she pours thick brown syrup over them and tucks in.

She feels the men's eyes on her.

"You'll like America," comments Pierce, sipping from his coffee mug. "Gideon, won't she like America?"

"I imagine she will. A shame you have to return to Russia so soon."

A tension settles thickly in the room, and Hermione senses irritation coming from Baron. She gives him a side glance, and he's tracing the rim of his mug, his jaw clenched.

Did she miss something?

"I have no reason to think I won't be able to go someday," she replies unsurely.

"And you don't think she'll be wasted there in the KGB?" pipes Baron. "With her talents? Milas, show the man what you can do?"

Fork and knife hovering over her pancakes, she switches her focus from Baron to the two men and then carefully lowers her tools. She wipes her hands on her napkin and throws them a tiny smile.

"What would you like to see?"

"Surprise us," says Pierce.

She nods and gets up from her chair and circles the table. She picks up the man's mug, the porcelain lukewarm. Her heart beats fast, nervous to try this new trick she learned in the kitchen last night.

"You're coffee is cold, sir," she tells him. "Let me help with that."

She concentrates on the black liquid and soon feels the porcelain smarting her skin. She hurriedly puts it down and steps back, watching the coffee boil. Pierce laughs and nods in approval.

"I'm sorry. Is that too hot?" Hermione touches the scalding hot rim of the cup and the steam disappears. An audible, crackling sound erupts. The coffee freezes and then porcelain frosts over. There's a moment of utter silence, and then the mug shatters and solid hunk of black skitters across the table and debris.

"Oh, no. I've made a mess. I'll clean it up." She wriggles her fingers over the pieces and then circles her wrist. The shards of the mug piece together, and the black chunk of coffee slips back into place and dissolves. Steam rises from it again, but this time the liquid is not boiling.

Pierce's expression has turned neutral as has Malick's. She catches the latter's eye, and he shrugs with a mildly impressed simper.

"Tell me you can do more than parlor tricks."

"Of course I can." She flicks a steady, disapproving gaze on Baron. He told her to take it easy on them. "I just don't want to scare you. I subdued the Winter Soldier last night. Please be sure you're ready."

"Ms. Bērziņš mentioned she had a second row with the asset," says Pierce, his expression steely.

Baron says nothing, but Hermione removes the attention off of him and back on to her. "You say you want something with a little more substance. Unfortunately, I don't have a an animal or insect at the ready, but I'm sure you've heard I can force them to do whatever I want. Hopefully, this will suffice, but may I please sit first."

Both men pause at the odd request, and Malick eventually gestures to her abandoned chair. She nods at him a thanks and concentrates on it. The horrible sensation she experience the night before hits her again, but as she pops into the seat, she forces herself to remain the picture of a calm and collected young lady. She swallows the vomit at the back of her tongue. The lights on the chandelier flicker and a few of them even blacken completely.

Malick's expression is one of both marvel and _apprehension_. However, Alexander Pierce's face is still cool mask of indifference. As for Baron, he's never looked more displeased with her. It's not that he looks angry. He's just not looking at her at all. He's got a fist over his mouth, and he's drilling daggers into his coffee.

She's done something wrong. Maybe…this is why Baron told her to hold back.

Still, she doesn't understand. They wanted this. They all wanted her to be this way. Baron said this had been a thirty-year project. To find someone with abilities like her and amplify them.

She wants to read their minds, but Baron instilled in her to _never_ invade her superiors' minds. To distrust them is to distrust HYDRA.

"Milas," says Baron.

"Yes?" she replies quietly.

"Finish your breakfast and go for a run. I have a few things to discuss with Mr. Pierce and Mr. Malick."

"I'm actually done, thank you." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her and resting her back against it. She stays there for a few moments and then faces the neighboring portrait of Schmidt.

"I get the feeling," she whispers, "the only one allowed to be both different and _powerful_ was you."

* * *

The moment the door closes, The Baron is on his feet. "Gentlemen, I did not know she could teleport. In fact, I didn't even know how she knew she could do it. She was supposed to," he gestures to the orchids in the vace, "change those goddamned things into tulips or something. Turn your suits pink. God, I don't know. I assure you tonight when she fights the Soldier, you'll won't regret—"

Gideon holds up hand to cease his ranting. "We've seen enough, Baron."

"We worried and were prepared this investment of ours would not turn out the way we hoped." Pierce removes slim, rectangular case from his inner coat pocket. "She's too powerful. The boiling and freezing of my coffee alone nearly gave me a heart attack. Imagine her doing that on a larger scale."

"She's loyal to HYDRA," argues The Baron. "And this what we wanted. One of _them_ transformed to an unlimited force to be reckoned with. We can only stay in the shadows for so long. When the time comes for the great reveal, we will be opposed. We need her when that happens. She'll be able to vanquish an army—"

"She could destroy us first," remarks Malick. "She should've been better conditioned. She should not remember her childhood at all, Baron. She now has the potential to know the truth about her parents."

"That is what the failsafe is for. Making her think they hated her and were scared of her. I planted those false memories, and they have held up for seven years."

"If you're so confident in it and in her loyalty," says Pierce, "then why haven't you told her Mommy and Daddy are dead."

"The same reason why none of us have told our wives the truth about what we really do and who we really. There's always that _fear_ they don't love us as much as they say they do. And that's just human nature. Doubt is always there. I still have confidence of Milas' loyalty, but there is that chance she may not be ambivalent in hearing that I ordered the hit on her parents."

Pierce might as well be a stone wall. He's relaxed but unmoved in the slightest. "I talked to Ms. Bērziņš briefly upon my arrival this morning as I mentioned. She said—in case you failed to—that Milas breached the asset's mind last night. We now have reason to believe she knows more than she should be privileged to. In cases like these, I'd have no qualms in putting her down, but since she's not like your other trainees and we were able to undo the damage she did, I'm willing to turn a blind eye. I'm also willing to accept you're validity in her future usefulness. I can't ignore how long we've waited for this, though, she's nothing what I wanted. She's still got her own mind. That's too risky and it'd be even riskier to put her in the chair. She'd blow us to hell by accident now she's at full power."

"Baron," starts Malick, "we're closing the file _for now_ on this project. And after what we've seen today, I'm sure Pierce agrees with me we have to go forward with caution and start thinking of countermeasures in case she'll ever need them."

"You can't be thinking—"

"We're going to need someone powerful enough to kill her and, Baron, this time I'm not looking for loyalty in HYDRA. I'm looking for someone loyal to _you_. So loyal, they'll do anything for you without question."

Baron releases a ragged breath, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Pierce, you had me design her to be unstoppable, and the only thing that could possibly counter her is another one of her kind. I don't suppose you have another one of those up your sleeve."

"Make one."

" _Make one?_ Are you mad? You can't make a bloody witch. Magic isn't a serum you can inject in someone."

Gideon opens both hands and smirks. "The world of science is making breakthroughs every day, and we're not saying you have to succeed by tomorrow. Dear Milas took time, didn't she?"

"But don't take too much time," Pierce warned. He opens the case he removed from his blazer, revealing a thin, metal strip. "Until then, you know what to do."

Baron stares at the box, helpless and disappointed. Thirty years down the drain. This had been a dream of his father and Malick's father. All because what? Because _Hermione Jean Granger_ might be in there somewhere. He tried. He really did try to remove that pathetic slip of a brat.

Milas was never supposed to return to Moscow after the Red Room. It had been a farce from the beginning. She went there to learn discipline and nothing more. She's too powerful to be a mere double agent. Such a job is beneath her talents. She'll be wasted, and it's unfair. He wanted to surprise her. Whisk her away to sunny resort and spoil her with her own clothes and books not belonging to his estranged wife's.

He closes the box, clenching his fingers around it, wanting to break it and everything in the room. Earlier, Pierce had gone over the importance of the bracelet. There's been unrest in the magical community of the United Kingdom as of late, and his private science division managed to nab a human-born like Milas who'd been wandering about, trying to avoid detection from _everyone_. A man. His wand was snapped, and tests upon tests were performed in learning ways to subdue their kind if their world ever threatened the _real_ one.

It turns out, a slight adjustment to a basic EMP device can render a magic-born obsolete. Their magic is similar to static-energy and can be treated almost the same way as electricity. However, the first byproducts failed after the devices lost charge. Pierce then had a device developed where the magical-wearer would be charging their own manacle. Fueling their own failure. The bracelet's design is next-generation material. It's undetectable under a radar and a metal detector. Convenient to hide and write off as a cheap trinket by an observer.

" _Energy is energy, my friend,"_ Pierce had said.

"Another thing?" says Pierce.

"What?" The Baron almost screams.

"Does she know she can kill with her abilities?"

He thinks of the incident with 54, and how Milas had told him she believed herself capable of killing when in someone's head. She likely remembers what happened, but she has yet to bring it up. She could've easily killed the Winter Soldier yesterday, but she didn't. The Baron's not sure if it's because he ordered her not to or she can't recall what she once theorized as a child.

"I don't know," he answers somewhat truthfully. "But I don't think she knows she can stop a person's heart by will if that's what you mean."

"Not _yet_ ," Malcik comments.

"The bracelet should hold off such predicaments for the time being," assures Pierce. He gets up from his seat and buttons his blazer. "Now with that all out of the way, I'll be packing up the asset. I mean what I said. There will be no show tonight."

"Of course," says The Baron and raises his coffee mug in a salute. "Cheers. May our next endeavor bear more fruit. To our next witch."

The three men clink their mugs together and drink. If any of them looked out the window, they'd see Milas running around the facility a little too fast for a normal human being, curly ponytail bobbing and whipping in the wind.

To Be Continued..


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: The Botanist, the Interrogator, and the Palm Reader**

 **Cambridge, Massachusetts**

 **March 2000**

This is not exactly what she had in mind when Baron said he'd be whisking her away for a vacation. A couple weeks back, she offhandedly mentioned over the phone the FSB was giving her holiday time, and Baron began planning. He never really painted her a picture of white, sandy beaches and fruity umbrella drink, but that's what she had in mind. Warm weather and a bungalow with a private view of the ocean where they could have sex on the beach without someone getting an eyeful.

He'd buy her things. He loved doing that. Ridiculous, nonsensical things like evening gowns and diamonds (to make up for the _jewelry_ she's been forced to wear), things she couldn't really wear to work. Every once in a while, an alias required her to dress formal for a gala, but she usually was part of the catering or housekeeping staff. No one paid attention to the help, but people were bound to notice a five foot six brunette with wide eyes and long lashes dressed in a lavender Ralph Lauren gown speaking Cantonese to one gentleman and then Bengali to another.

Massachusetts in March is definitely not what Hermione had in mind for a vacation. There's still snow patches on the ground, and almost everyone in the area is hacking or sneezing and looking completely miserable as they tote their backpacks or swivel their bicycles towards the campus of MIT.

When Baron met her at the airport in Berlin, the first words out of his mouth had been, _"Fancy a trip to the States?"_

She'd been thinking maybe, _hopefully_ Hawaii. Bloody hell, Florida, even. Fucking California. Not…not _this_.

It's not that she doesn't find Maya Hansen unattractive. Hermione has come to terms with herself. She likes women _and_ men, but she's pickier about the former. Maya isn't her type, and Hermione knows she's not hers. Still, they have a common lifestyle in that they mostly go for men but sometimes want women. Tonight at the bar, from the way Maya had been chatting and playing coy with the man next to her, Hermione knew she was going to have to work a little bit harder. She adjusted her black-rimmed glasses and got to work.

A couple of hours later, and here Hermione is now. At Maya's flat. She's got potted, cased-off plants all over the place, and Maya had tipsily warned to be careful around them. But that's just all background now as she squirms and writhes under Maya. Baron is in her ear, listening on the earpiece, and she's trying to tune out his perverse words of encouragement. He loves doing this, and she hates it. And sometimes, she just hates him.

He manacled her. He enslaved her. And now he listens and gets off as she delves mouth and tongue first into her assignment. Hermione thinks she might as well be a whore, and missions like these were exactly what she never wanted. They were supposed to be beneath her.

She thinks of the Winter Soldier, and how she looked down on him when she was eleven years old. She thought of him as a dog. A trained dog and how she feared becoming that but had been so sure it wouldn't even be a possibility. She dwells on the last time she saw him, how he begged to die. He begged her to kill him, so he wouldn't have to anymore.

Hermione doesn't have to kill Maya Hansen, but the woman is one of few who's escaped HYDRA's list.

For now.

Hermione's loyalty is still to HYDRA, but with each covert assignment she's tossed under theFSB's nose, the more difficult it is for her to maintain her conviction. Are these people really a threat to the world, to humanity? Or are they just a threat to HYDRA's council?

There's stirring going on in the Middle East. More than usual. Natalia often brings it up, having had been undercover in Saudi Arabia for almost a year.

" _Something's coming,"_ she'd say. _"I wish I was able to find out what."_

HYDRA's blatantly ignoring the shift in the wind. Maybe because they're being persuaded to. They have friends with deep pockets over in that part of the world.

Maya finally tires and curls on her side to fall asleep. Hermione presses up behind her, caressing her arm until her breath evens out. She then carefully gets out of the bed and puts on her clothes and pads out of the room. Maya had discarded her computer bag in the sitting room, the woman carrying it with her wherever she went. She unzips the bag and pulls out the laptop, opening and booting it up. She shoves the disk Baron gave her into the drive and closes it and copies everything from the hard drives to the disk.

Hermione then pulls out all Maya's notebooks from the bag and puts on her glasses, hitting the left corner of her frame with each turn of the page. In a small pocketbook with equations and formulas, Hermione finds one on a card authored from a " _you know who I am_."

Putting everything away just as she found it, Hermione quietly leaves the flat and doesn't bother going back to the hotel where Baron is waiting for her. She dumps the ear piece and hails a cab to the airport, leaving for Moscow on the earliest flight. The whole flight home, she scowls out the window, at her bracelet, and at the perverted fourteen year old boy next to her.

Baron comes for her and _fast_. He needs the disk and specs and is so angry at her for disregarding protocol, he doesn't even bother asking _why_ she went AWOL. He suspends her from HYDRA-related missions for the foreseeable future and threatens to extract her from the FSB. Days go by until he finally calls her and asks _why_.

"I don't want to wear the bracelet anymore," she tells him.

"That is no reason for your behavior, Milas." He's then quiet for a moment. "I had to discuss your incident with the council. They fear you may have gone native and given the information to Russia."

"I haven't and I didn't," she says evenly.

"Someone is going to stop by to question you. I ask you don't give him a hard time. Don't give him any reason to think you're disloyal to HYDRA. The fallout could be more terrifying than you imagine."

Hermione glares at her door after he leaves and then her calendar. She's only got three days left until she's got to get back to work. What an utterly fantastic holiday she's having, yeah? She wants to call up Natalia, but she's out somewhere in France coaxing all kinds of juicy tidbits from some poor sod.

Later that evening, a polished, bald-head man in his late twenties comes to her door. She gawks at his crisp, freshly pressed suit and then yanks him inside by his tie. He lets out an undignified gargle and falls to his knees when she lets him go. He must think she's being hostile because his fingers fly to his taser gun which she kicks out of his hand with ease.

"Stand down," he orders in English from the floor, his hands up in surrender. Ugh! American.

"You stand down," she counters. "Are you crazy coming here looking like that? You know Russian operatives are often monitored?"

"I'm here on _business_ , Agent Abegglen," he says. As if that's an excuse. He gets to his feet and shakes his designer briefcase at her pointedly.

"You look like government and not _this_ one. Didn't you get, like, a memo—"

"I'm a Level 3, so I will wear—"

"If the FSB blows down my door, I'm going tell them you're an American spy sent to torture and kill me for information when I thought you were just some errand boy delivering flowers." Hermione gestures to the fresh bouquet of pink roses on her coffee table Baron sent as an apology for being so harsh with her, not as her supervising officer, but as her lover.

The man gets to his feet and readjusts his tie and then his skewed glasses. He lifts his chin at her defiantly as if to say he doesn't answer to her. She's just some expendable toy soldier. But as for him, he delivers Alexander Pierce's coffee and is a caddy to uppity-up politicians on the golf course.

The hand not carrying the briefcase clenches, and he introduces himself. "Agent Jasper Sitwell. We should get started."

They sit at her humble dinner table in the kitchen, and he unlocks his briefcase. He pulls out a monitor and meticulously wrapped cords. He unravels them and hooks the sensors to her temples, to her pulse, and then above her breastbone. He fires up the monitor, and she takes a deep breath. She's got this. Her faith dwindles in HYDRA, but she's still here. At the end of the day, she owes them so much. She tells herself she'd be straight-jacketed and locked in a padded room if it hadn't been for them.

"State your full name and date of birth," says Agent Sitwell.

"Milas Edda Abegglen. Born November 2, 1979.

Agent Sitwell looks at the monitor and then back at her. "Is that your real name and date of birth?"

"Specify."

Contempt begins to blossom in his eyes. "Has Milas Edda Abegglen always been your name."

"No, sir."

"Explain."

"I was assigned the name Milas Edda Abegglen at age eleven. Before then, I was 17."

"I assume you mean the number. And before then?"

Hermione is quiet for a moment and then replies, "I was born Hermione Jean Granger."

Agent Sitwell doesn't look surprised and must be somewhat familiar with her file. He writes a few notes in his file and then inquires, "Where were you born?"

"In Surrey, England."

"Which hospital."

"I don't remember," she lies.

"Date?"

"September 19th in 1979."

"Do you remember your parents' names?"

"No."

Sitwell glances at the monitor and then at her. "Are you sure about that?"

He's trying to bate her, but he's not aware she can pass these suckers like no one's business, thanks to the Red Room. It's a learned skill she never bothered telling Baron or anyone else about. There are things she needs to keep to herself to hold some sort semblance of control over her life.

"I'm sure," she lies.

"Have you ever gone looking for them?"

"No."

"Do you remember your maternal and or paternal grandparents at all?"

The question throws her, but she quickly schools herself. "I remember my maternal grandmother a little."

"Do you remember her name?"

"No," she lies.

He rests his gaze on the monitor, his pen clicking his hand. "Do you remember what primary school you went to?"

"No."

"Do you remember any of the friends you had?"

"No."

"Did you have any pets?"

"There might've been a cat."

"Do you remember the cat's name?"

"No."

"You're on deserted island. There's a box that washes up on shore. What's in it?"

Hermione mulls over the question, finding it out of sort with the others. Clearly, it's a psychoanalysis question.

"A book."

"Which book?"

" _Lord of the Flies_. Or maybe _Snow White and Seven Dwarves._ "

Sitwell stares at her for a moment and then mutters a long, "Right." He flips a page of the file and exhales noisily. He scans whatever's on the page, brows pinched together in mild confusion. "Another question and then will get to the real stuff. Before you left Surrey, do you recall anyone ever visiting to your home to discuss your education with your parents."

"No," Hermione says slowly, frowning. "Why?"

"I ask the questions, Agent Abegglen." He adds to his notes and then clicks his pen. "Now on to the more important questions. Are you in a relationship?"

"Specify."

"A romantic relationship?"

She curses mentally. She has to say yes. Baron will read her results and know she can pass a lie detector test if she says no. She can't let him know. She can't let any of them know. This is her one tangible thing of freedom. She has to tell the truth.

"Yes."

"Explain."

Hermione solemnly dips her chin. "I'm in a relationship with my supervising officer."

"FSB or HYDRA?"

"HYDRA. I don't have an assigned S.O. in FSB."

Sitwell writes fast, only pausing to push his glasses up his nose. "Baron Von Strucker is your supervising officer, correct?"

"Yes."

He looks up at her from over his file. "He's married. Did you know that?"

"I will answer official and professional questions only which are necessary, sir."

There are a thousand questions wanting to erupt from his mouth, and she can see them all, but none of them classify as being on the record. His form had not prepared him for her to say yes to being in a romantic relationship and to name her S.O. as being the one she's involved with. Eventually, though, he nods and continues reading from his form.

"How long have you been an official operative of Russia?"

"For almost three years."

"Has your loyalty to them ever been questioned?"

"No."

"Not once?"

"No."

"They have no reason to believe you're a double agent?"

"No."

"Has your associate Natalia Romanova ever expressed doubt in your loyalty?"

Hermione shakes her head. "No."

"Does she truly believe you're Milas Abegglen? That you were brought to the Red Room because of an uncle's political connections?"

"Yes."

"Has she ever asked to meet your uncle?"

"No."

"If she ever did, how would you respond?"

"She won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because my uncle died of brain cancer months after I graduated from the Red Room." Hermione smiles blandly at Sitwell who arches an impressed eyebrow at her.

"HYDRA has expressed concern in your closeness with who the intelligence world is dubbing Black Widow. Have you ever had romantic or unprofessional relations with her?"

Hermione drums her fingers on the table. "Briefly."

Interest sparkles in the man's dark eyes, but he remains professional. He writes down a few notes and continues, "What caused it to end? Was she getting to close to discovering who you were?"

"Truthfully?"

"Obviously."

She sighs and the shirks one shoulder. "I was a phase. An experiment. She prefers men. They're easier to control and manipulate."

"So she said."

Hermione chuckles and shoots him a sly smirk. "It was a valid point."

Sitwell frowns at her, clicking his blasted pen. She imagines shoving the tip into his jugular.

"You disregarded protocol on his last mission, Agent. You were supposed to rendezvous with your S.O. at the hotel."

"I wasn't in the mood for rendezvousing." She shows him her bracelet, and she wonders if he even knows what it's true purpose is for. "And I am never off the radar."

"Did you show anyone in Russian intelligence or anyone else the pictures you took before Strucker came for them?"

"No."

"Would you ever consider betraying HYDRA by going native for the FSB?"

"No."

"Would you ever inform another intelligence-based organization of HYDRA's existence?"

"No."

"Do you plan on _ever_ betraying HYDRA?"

Hermione doesn't skip a beat. "No." She looks Sitwell square in the eye, daring him to find the tiny seed of doubt planted in her chest.

"Good." Sitwell nods.

"Hail HYDRA," she says and for the first time, she feels completely empty saying it.

"Hail HYDRA," he replies. "We're done here. Remove the sensors. Your S.O. will be in touch with you, but don't plan on it being Strucker. I will leave nothing out of the report."

"I expect nothing less from a Level 3 agent."

Sitwell leaves, and she locks the door behind him before going to sit on her sofa. She stares at the pink roses for a while, thinking their her least favorite out of all the bouquets Baron has given her. She liked the purple orchids more he got her yesterday. Carefully, she removes her bracelet and sets it on the table, flexing and rotating her wrist. A strip of pale skin stands out against the rest of her hand. A rush of static floods her, and she closes her eyes, relishing the sensation.

When she opens them, she thinks the flowers should suffer the same fate as the orchids. But she's going to be creative about it. With a curl of her fingers, the plush, velvet petals shrivel and crumble. When they hit the glass of her coffee table, they explode into dust, and she guides them to her open window to let the cool breeze sweep the away. The black dead stems in the vase remain but soon, they break apart and fall into the water.

Killing the flowers is a simple, menial thing. Not even a fraction of what she can do. But it has to be enough for now, and already, she's had the bracelet off for too long. She'll be getting a call or another visit soon, so she latches on the strap and dumps the soiled water into the sink.

She keeps the vase. She always does and puts it with the others. In a cabinet in her bedroom.

The following morning, she goes walking around the city. Something she doesn't do too often. She buys a newspaper, a coffee, and a pastry and pretends to be like the rest of the people around her. There's a bookstore not far from the café, so she goes inside and meanders around, reading the spines. One of them intrigues her, and she pulls the book out, reading the back and then the first few pages.

Several minutes in, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Someone's watching her. She turns around and sees a woman, perhaps in her sixties standing stoically behind her. Her hair is a dark gray with a white stripe and her long, black coat is more like a cloak, thick and billowy. Her eyes…are strange, and her skin is deathly pale. Around her crooked arm is a woven basket filled with old-fashioned, hardback books.

"Is there something I can do for, ma'am?" asks Hermione.

One side of the woman's mouth quirks, and she steps forward. "It's funny you come into this book shop out of all the others in the city."

Warning bells rang inside Hermione's head, and she glances at the exit. "Why do you say that?"

The woman's strange, pupil-blown eyes move over Hermione, a smile of regret and wistfulness appearing on her face. She lifts a thin, long-nailed finger. "It's like you're searching, aren't you? You're starving for it? Even after everything, you still feel incomplete."

"Whatever narcotic you're obviously selling, I guarantee you, I don't want it." Hermione goes to leave.

"Wait," the woman rasps, showing her free hand. "Show me your hand, child."

Her legs stop moving, and she turns to face the woman, watching as her right hand acts on his its own accord. The women clucks her tongue, shaking her head. "The other one."

Her left hand lifts, and the woman's icy fingers skim over her palm, her nails dragging over the lines. Hermione blinks, feeling like she's swimming through a fog. What just happened? She was going to leave and then…

"My mother could read palms," says the woman. "A gift she passed to me. Not a very lucrative gift, mind you. Which is why I chose another profession. A teacher. Better job stability. There will always be children."

"You're a teacher," comments Hermione, wondering what kind of school would hire on a woman who looks the way she does.

"Would you like to know your future?" The woman's nails tickle the flesh aside her bracelet. "Such an ugly thing. You should crush the coward's heart who gave it to you."

Hermione furrows her brows and tells herself this woman knows nothing. She couldn't possibly. "I don't believe in that sort of thing."

"Then there is no harm, is there?" Nails travel back to her palm and scrape along the lines. "There is no harm in knowing…you will one day find what you're soul has been seeking. Or more accurately, it will find you. Be careful. It wears the face of an enemy." The woman shakes her head and exhales, the sound melancholy. "Dear child, the betrayals you still face..."

Laughing, Hermione tries to take back her hand, but the woman's grip is relentless, and she doesn't necessarily want to break the old quack's hand. It's not her fault she's madder than a hatter.

"Are you going to tell me the love of my life is around the corner, too?" Hermione snickers. She'll indulge this woman. Why not? It's the most interesting thing that's happened to her in a long time. She'll tell Natalia about it over vodka martinis and chocolate cake and have a good chuckle.

The woman shakes her head solemnly. "Your heart is as barren as your womb. Even when you manage to accept the one unlike the others, well…it's so long from now. You may change by then."

The woman closes her hand and pats the back of it. "It was good running into you. And disappointing, too. Very much so."

The encounter with the woman at the bookshop bothers her for days. Weeks, even. When she tells Natalia about it over vodka martinis and chocolate cake, they have a laugh, but Hermione still can't fully shake the woman from her thoughts until months pass.

To be Continued...


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: All right, we are finally getting to some of my more favorite parts of the story. I also want to give everyone a big thanks for sticking with me through this. I'm thinking we're about midway through the story. Also, I kind of want to apologize for the last chapter but not really. It's kind of a filler, I know. I actually wrote this chapter first, but I felt like I needed to give you guys a peek between '97 and '03 on what she's been doing and how she's handling her bracelet _which_ I'm thinking all of you hate. Am I right?**

 *****I need to point out and break down my timeline a bit. I think it's crucial. So I'm doing my best to go by Kevin Feige's weirdbutt timeline-which I may add, is an abomination in itself-but a major MCU god has spoken, so I gotta comply which means _all_ the main showdowns we know and love are happening in 2008, not 2008-2012. The Battle of New York is happening sooner than you think, and *crosses fingers* I can't wait for, and you'll see why.**

 **I stand by what I mentioned, that this will evolve into a Hermione/Bucky situation. It'll be a while before it happens, though, because not everyone gets the real deal in their twenties, and I'm wanting to stay loyal to the MCU films as much as I can.**

 **Okay now, on with the chapter! Thanks again to all my followers and reviewers. Please enjoy and r &r!**

* * *

 **Chapter 14: The Traitors Among Us Part I**

 **Moscow 2003**

Hot water pounds on her back, her head resting against the wall of the shower. She wants to sit down. Lay down. And let the water pour over her until she's clean from the Middle East. Sand, dirt, blood, and the merciless sun have scorched and seeped her every pore. Eighteen months of deep-cover in Kabul, Deh Rawood, Terahn, Kuwait City, and Dubai will do that.

A year and a half of deep-cover and she fucking hardly made a dent in Al Qaeda's wall having got caught up in The Taliban's mess the last several months . She got pulled out in the thick of it—it was only going to get thicker—because the U.S. finally arrived, and FSB doesn't feel it necessary to have so many operatives in the area anymore. Hermione and three others were yanked from the Middle East. There are still some of her comrades there, but not her.

If it were up to HYDRA, they'd leave her there until her cover got blown and then they _might_ extract her. If convenient. The political direction of The Taliban and the hostility of Al Qaeda **.** They are no friends of HYDRA. Not as a whole, anyway. Some of the uppers have oil company connections and business arrangements with some of the leaders in Pakistan and Afghanistan which soured since 9/11 but were still intact for the most part.

During her bout in the Middle East, her mission differed month-to-month. Week-to-week, even. There were times she was an American, Russian, British, or Australian reporter trying to get the story on what was happening, what could happen, etc. _Twice_ , she got captured doing that, and both times, she had to kill everyone involved before they put her in front of a goddamned camera to make a point.

Other times, she had more gritty, indelicate jobs. One, she got so far in as being a part of the slave trade—a university student from Jerusalem—her _master_ actually claimed to love her after 3 weeks of being in his…care.

Hermione idly wonders if he still loves her since she was the one who put a bullet each into the heads of his father and mother and older brother. She would've killed Abid, too, if the property's security guards hadn't been shooting at her, so she left him unconscious with a broken back on the kitchen floor. He may never walk or use his prick again, but she's all right with that.

Her last assignment, though, had been the hardest despite being the shortest.

She pumps two-year old shampoo into her hands and scrubs at her springy, shorn locks. Chopped hair and breast-binding to transform herself into a man. A short and slight man. A soldier of the Taliban for a week and no one suspected a thing, though, some of the others called her unsavory names behind her back. It still astounds her no one even suspected. Maybe because only an idiot-woman would try such a thing.

Sooner or later, she has to leave the shower and decides it's time when the water is ice-cold. She hops out and towels off, grateful they are clean. Baron and Natalia have been keeping her flat in tip-top shape, and Hermione counts herself lucky neither one of them know about each other. They hadn't incidentally crossed paths while visiting in her absence.

Hermione sees traces of Natalia in the bathroom. The type of soap and shampoo she uses and the lotions and body-sprays she prefers on the shelf. There's her toothbrush behind the mirror-cabinet as well as her preferred choice of panty-liners. There's also a box of condoms which means Hermione's going to have a talk with Natalia. She distinctly said no plus-ones in her apartment. There's only _one_ bed. _Her_ bed.

An unsettling thought springs into her mind that maybe the condoms are Baron's. He wouldn't…would he? He wouldn't dare bring a girl to the flat he gave her. They're not really _together_ like a normal couple. Their relationship is open, but this is _her_ place.

She scowls at the box and then shakes her head. No, they're not his size, and he'd never buy flavored or scented. Definitely Natalia's box.

Closing the cabinet, she wipes down the fog on the mirror and checks her reflection. Tanned, freckled face and rosy cheeks. Hair an atrocity. She finds a pair of nail scissors and evens up her butchered job. Baron will hate the new do but, oh, well. There are loads of wretched things he's done she went along with. Her least favorite, the bracelet. Which miraculously survived the last eighteen months. She thought for sure she'd lose it when in the sex ring. She means…they took everything else from her. If they had, though, she probably wouldn't have been able to help herself from using her powers against those responsible in hoarding women and children like cattle.

"Pixie cuts are kind of in, aren't they," she tells her reflection before pulling on a robe and padding into the kitchen to poke her head into the fridge. She grins tiredly when seeing a bottle of chardonnay and a plastic carton housing the most delicious piece of chocolate cake Hermione's ever seen.

On the bottle, there's a tag wrapped around it, and she reads:

 _My darling Milas. I'm sorry I could not be there to greet you in your return home. A work-matter has come to my attention, but do enjoy these delicacies._

 _With every ounce of affection in my heart,_

 _Your Baron._

 _P.S. I'm thinking something adventurous for our six-year anniversary later this year. What do you think about an African Safari?_

Hermione snorts and rolls her eyes. He's such a sentimental sod. Like calling what they have is something worth anniversaries. They're not married. They're…lovers. He's still married. By his choice. The man is caught up in a prenup. He divorces Mrs. Von Strucker, he loses half his fortune. He apologizes endlessly to Hermione about this. Like he thinks she's going to start hounding him for a ring. Like he's worried she'll never be his wife.

She thinks he forgets who and what she is, and what she was designed to be. What he helped to design her to be.

It was certainly not a wife, and she's not interested in receiving anymore _jewelry_ from him. He laid off on the ample gift-giving when she came forward during her interrogation with Sitwell about their affair. Baron is no longer her S.O but just a man she spreads her legs for to get free vacations and her rent paid. Sitwell. He's her…unofficial S.O due to still being a junior officer. But she hasn't seen him since before 9/11.

Settling herself at the table with the chardonnay and cake, she's about to dig in when her private cellphone rings. The one Baron and sometimes Natalia calls her on. Hermione gets up and goes to her room, her phone charging on the nightstand.

"Hello?"

" _Milas, you need to get out of there now!"_ Barons hisses. He sounds distraught.

Hermione flicks her gaze around her room and then darts into the closet, setting her phone on speaker and sets it on the dresser, so she can strip off her robe and scrambles to put on anything she can get her hands on.

"Talk to me. What's going on?" she asks, yanking on a pair of Natalia's low-rises and a sports bra.

" _They're coming for you!"_

"Who?" She puts on a football jersey and shoves her feet into a pair of Nike's. Too tight! Damn laces.

There's banging on the door, and adrenaline hits her like a truck.

"Who?" she asks, stooping down to hurry and fumble with the shoe laces. She clocks her nightstand and pictures the two pistols inside the drawer waiting to come out and play.

" _S.H.I.E.L.D.!"_

Hermione pauses and looks incredulously at her phone. "Excuse me?!"

The sound of her door broken from its hinges rattles the tiny apartment.

"They're here," she says.

" _Romanova,"_ says Baron. _"She betrayed you. I'm sorry, Milas, it's too late. Do not engage with the unit. Comply with them. I'll get you out of this, I promise. Destroy the phone."_

The line goes dead, and Hermione goes numb. She sprints to the bathroom and runs water and bleach and whatever else she can over the phone. When the men come into her room dressed in their full tactical gear, it's like they arrive in slow motion. She sinks to the ground, and they're saying words, but she can't absorb them.

Natalia sold her out.

To S.H.I.E.L.D.

Hermione would snicker because, oh, the irony, but she can't. The betrayal cuts her deep. After everything they went through together. The Red Room and the few dozen team missions. Natalia once took a bullet in the leg for her; Hermione doesn't understand.

For the first time since she was a child, she allows herself to feel true sadness. Unshed tears of rage and promise of retribution burn her eyes. S.H.I.E.L.D. won't hold her for long. She is HYDRA. She fucking owns S.H.I.E.L.D and when she's released, she's going after Natalia and God have mercy because Hermione certainly will not. Taru...Taru, she handled. Hermione can't handle this. She can't forgive this.

Her forehead is coaxed to the floor, and her wrists are cuffed behind her back. She could break them, and not just the cuffs. There are four men, and she could probably kill three of them before being peppered with the survivor's bullets. She's quick and tough as hell, but she's not bulletproof. But some of these men may be on HYDRA's side, and she needs to do what Baron said. They're not going to kill her, so there's no reason to kill them. Like she said to herself before, she'll be released in due time.

The man behind her who put the cuffs on is surprisingly gentle when he helps her to her feet. His grip is firm on her upper arm, though, when he and the rest of his unit guide her out of the apartment and down the stairs to the awaiting black SUV. She climbs into the back seat and sits in the middle, two men on each side of her while the other two occupy the front seats.

"This will be over soon," says the man on her right. He's staring out the window, and she takes in his dark hair, bronzed skin, and five o' clock shadow.

He's handsome.

He grew up handsome.

"I imagine it will be," she replies.

He looks away from the window and at her. "The U.S. government just wants to ask you a few questions, is all."

"Agent, stop talking to the suspect. Remember what Romanova said."

Her eyes are still locked with his, but he has to pull away before the other's notice the way his rest on her. The way they spell mischief for what's to come and _finally_ and are the last things she sees before he places a black bag over her head. The vehicle gets shifted into gear, and they start to move.

* * *

The bag is removed. She's in an interrogation room. A _hot_ interrogation room. The heater is cranked way up. Sweat gathers at the base of her skull and in her arm pits. She wipes her forehead with her cuffed hands which have been chained to the floor through the table. The give on the chain is about a foot long but nowhere near long enough to reach the glass and pitcher of water at the end of the table on her right.

The man who removed the bag from her head is making gestures at the mirror. He taps his ear and then nods, leaving the room but not before shutting off the light, drowning her in the dark. She hears a heavy deadlock slide into place.

The heat for discomfort. The darkness for fear. Basic tactics to ware her down so when the interrogation starts, she'll be ready to say and do anything.

Child's play.

* * *

Okay.

All right.

She'll give S.H.I.E.L.D. an applause. They certainly know how to make a guest feel special.

Hermione drinks the last of the water, head resting against the concrete of the wall. She escaped the cuffs hours and hours ago. Maybe even day or two has passed, and she's down to her underwear. She's managed not needing to use the bathroom thanks to sweating like she's in a sauna, but the time has come where she really needs a toilet.

And a meal.

Putting her forearm against the wall, she rests her head against it. S.H.I.E.L.D. made their point. Where the hell are they? She's ready. She's not loyal to Russia. Hell, she'll point to every single FSB and SVR base on the map. They want a few Al Qaeda safehouses? Done. Hey, she'll even let them know Iranian leaders are hiring contract nuclear physicists and even provide names. She'll roll over like a dog and show her belly because she's not the real enemy here, and she's pissed at HYDRA for allowing them to take it this far with her.

She turns her head to the far upper corner where sometimes a red light flashes and says in a hoarse voice, "You've made your point. I'm ready to talk."

The lights flash on, and she has to bury her eyes into her arm at the abrupt change. The whirring of the heater silences, and she hears the deadlock of the door slide. The door opens, and Hermione lethargically looks over her shoulder at a man entering. He's got thinning, sandy blond hair and is pushing a food cart. Atop of the cart is a metal platter with a lid which he removes and reveals a dish of Baltic Sprat.

"Hungry?" he asks. He sets down the lid and places the platter on the table. "I've been told it's one of your favorites."

Natalia.

Hermione wants to march over to him and break the food cart—bash his head in with the broken pieces. Murder drenches her face, but the man merely smiles at her and casually sits down at the table, gesturing to the empty one on the opposite side.

"I think you should sit, Agent Abegglen."

"I need to use the bathroom."

"Eat. Then we'll talk negotiations."

"I'll go right now. Right here," she threatens.

"I think that'll be more humiliating for you than me." He points to the platter of food. "I've been told of your appetite. You must be famished. But, ah," he gets up from the chair and crosses the room to her in long, purposeful strides, his hand extended. "Where are my manners? Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

To be Continued...


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I was ready to edit and post this earlier this week but with what happened in Las Vegas, I didn't have the motivation. My heart hurts, and I feel sick. My thoughts and prayers go out to the survivors and the victims' family members and friends.**

 **Thank you, Honestly don't you two read, craaazyaboutMalfoy, kfawcett1998, Littlemissmoffey, Afrodity, Firesong23, Dreamsb223, Arcane Charmcaster, setokayba2n, Guest, Margareitha Malfoy-Nott, noellesullivan, fateforgotme, and k8lyn01 for your reviews and comments and questions.**

 **Thank you, Arcane Charmcaster, for your support in defending Hermione's character when she was accused of being a Sue. It got me thinking, though, if there may be others who feel the same way.**

 **Now the term "Sue" can mean different things to different people in the writing world. To me, my definition is pretty basic-a perfect but painfully "flat-character" girl who falls in and out of line at the author's will depending on where the story's going. At a glance of my story, I can understand why someone might think that about my interpretation of Hermione. I know people hate the bracelet. The Hermione they know would never yield to such tyranny, but...she does and she has throughout the entirety of the story because she's a _loyal_ operative to HYDRA. She's going to put the mother-fluffing bracelet on. Even with her memories in tact, she's doing what she's been raised to do. She's the epitome of Stockholm Syndrome, _but_ we're starting to see doubt and then little acts of rebellion, aren't we? Little quakes come before volcanic eruptions.**

 **Another thing I'll just touch on quickly is that my Hermione is not perfect. She never is when I borrow her from Rowling. Even as a child, she acts like a child. She has bits of bravery but for the most part, she's a hysterical and emotional little thing. Her magic isn't perfect, either. Ill-timed and mostly a consequence of anger and fear. When she gets to the Sokovian facility, she's not even unique. There's another girl (54) there who's like her and we find she is actually better at controlling and expressing magic. The Baron liked her more, even, and planned to send 54 to the Red Room as opposed to Hermione. On that note, when Hermione was in the Red Room, she wasn't even the best there despite her talents. It was Natasha who was the best and got recognition and private lessons from the instructors.**

 ***Sigh* All right, now that I've defended my mess of story, please do enjoy Chapter 15 because I enjoyed writing because like you, Firesong23, I love Phil, as well! :) Let's see what Hermione thinks of him, shall we?**

* * *

 **Chapter 15: The Traitors Among Us Part II**

She doesn't take Agent Coulson's hand right away but gives in when he shows no sign of moving. She shakes it cautiously, and he pulls at her arm, wanting her to follow him to the table. He smiles at her hopefully. "Please eat. You'll feel better."

He lets go of her hand, and she sits down in the chair and then goes to pick up the fork and knife, flinching when she feels a weight fall on her shoulders. Agent Coulson gave her his suit jacket, and she stares up at him, confused.

"The A/C has kicked on. You're going to get cold soon."

She eyes him warily as he circles the table. What game is he trying to play? What's the phrase Americans use? Good cop, bad cop? He must be the good one.

Hermione tucks into the Baltic Sprat with a bit of difficulty, her utensils being plastic and all. Coulson studies her every move but says nothing until her plate is clean. He removes her plate and places it back on the food tray and then takes a briefcase from the tray below and clicks it open, pulling out a recorder and a thin file which she assumes has everything to do with her. It's thinner than the one Sitwell had with him during their first meeting together. The HYDRA file must be separated completely from the S.H.I.E.L.D. file.

"Up until recently, we didn't have much on you, Agent Abegglen. You're remarkable in staying under the radar. It wasn't until Abid Amdaal when you even made a blip." He opens the file and pulls out a photograph of herself from thirteen months ago. It's pixelated and black and white, but there's no mistaking her face.

Hermione is beyond a blushing victim, but the photograph is obscene and must've been taken from an open window with a long-lensed camera. She's naked and on all fours in the picture, wrists cuffed to the headboard of Amdaal's bed. Amdaal at the base of the bed, whip in hand. The entire length of her back and derriere is marked, lacerated. She's looking at her abuser over her shoulder, a perfect mask of pain and fear on her face.

It hadn't hurt that much, and she hadn't been afraid at the time of the photograph. She remembered her feelings well that night. Hate and knowing he'd get his soon. Once she gotten what she came for, _sacrificed for,_ she became the master, whip and all.

Coulson puts the photograph back into the briefcase and replaces it with another, this one in hallway littered with bodies and blood smears. She's standing in the midst of them, armed with an L85A2.

"Sadly, these are the only two photos we have of you," he tells her. "The rest of the information we got, well…came from another source."

Hermione leans forward and rests her forearms on the table, regarding the man coolly. "There are only two people in the world who know my weakness for Baltic Sprat, but only one of them would have the brass to use it against me. You bring Natalia Romanova to me, and I will tell you more secrets about Al Qaeda than you can possibly dream of."

The grin Coulson gifts her is an endeared one. "Where's Bin Laden?"

"Ugh!" Hermione rolls her eyes and sits back in her chair, folding her arms.

"That's what I thought."

She scowls at nothing in particular, her bladder screaming at her, full belly pressing into an already touchy situation. Exhaling, she says, "Before jumping ship, I got wind of a planned attack. Saudi Arabia."

"Specify"

She shrugs. "I might know after I use a bathroom."

Coulson doesn't look so endeared with her anymore. There's fury twinkling in those eyes as he beckons his hand at the mirror. The door opens and armed men shuffle in, including the one from the car. His five o'clock shadow is turning into a beard, and he's doing well in playing ambivalent, but she does catch a jaw tick.

Her wrists and ankles are shackled, and a bag is placed over her head again. She's blindly escorted out of the room and a short distance to a place that has tiled floor and smells of Clorox and men's shaving cream. The surface is cold and goosebumps travel up her exposed flesh.

"We can't leave her alone," says one of the men.

"I'll take care of it," says another, and Hermione searches her memories.

What had he said his name was going to be?

Brock. Robert's name was going to be Brock.

She hears a door click shut, and the bag is being removed. She barely has time to adjust to her surroundings when there's a hand on her mouth and a grip on her neck, and she's being slammed against the stall. _Brock's_ got his face so close to hers, their noses are almost touching. He's furious. Gone is the promise of mischief and adventure she'd caught a glimpse of before. Reality has set in, and it's not like what she or he expected. HYDRA hasn't come for her. She is seemingly suffering for no reason.

"What the hell were you doing at the apartment? Sitwell was supposed to contact you."

She jerks her head to let loose his hand on her mouth. "It was Strucker who contacted me. It was too late when he did."

"Strucker?" He frowns. "The Baron? Why would he contact you?"

"He was my S.O. before Sitwell."

"Why would he contact you?" he repeated, suspicion dripping from his mouth.

"I don't know," she half-lies. Honestly, the call should really have come from Sitwell. "Maybe Sitwell's compromised somewhere or dead or lodged under files of analytics and paperwork. Or all bloody three. Even so. There are others who could pull strings. Why am I still here?"

He lets go of her neck, his thumb lingering a soothing, near-apologetic rub over the skin. "I don't know," he says, stepping back and smearing a hand down his face. "Maybe it's time."

"Time?"

"To get you out of Russia. Twelve years is a long time playing pretend."

She arches a brow. "Whatever happens to me after _this_ , I still will be playing pretend, Robert."

His expression visibly _shudders_ at the mention of his birth name. He likely hasn't heard it in years. Around the same amount of time since she's heard someone call her by her real name.

"Don't," is all he says.

She quirks her lips. "I really do have to go."

He's goes and puts his face in the corner as she pees, but they still talk. He needs to give her the rundown of what's happened. Why Natalia betrayed Russia and her.

"We put a hit out on her," begins Brock. "S.H.I.E.L.D., that is. After what happened at that hospital, it was decided she needed to be put down."

Hermione's fingers hover over the toilet paper. She'd been in Kabul at the time of that and got drift of what happened from the news. She figured it was Russian intelligence to some degree, but she hadn't known it was Natalia.

"Then why isn't she dead."

Brock shakes his head. "Fuck if I know. The agent sent to kill her took pity. Said he saw something in her not worth killing. Next thing we know, she's being taken in and questioned and then offered either to be a double agent or prison for the rest of her life _._ She chose the former and coughed you up and half a dozen officers."

"They offered her a job." Hermione stands and pulls up her underwear. "She is the epitome and remnants of what's left of the USSR, and the U.S. government offered her a _job_."

She wrinkles her forehead, massaging an up and coming headache. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. She knew Natalia's heart wasn't in it. She got the drift while in the Red Room, but the woman doesn't need to be awarded a second chance. She needs to be in prison.

"The ones handling Romanova's case are strictly S.H.I.E.L.D. by chance. She got passed along to Nicholas Fury, Level 7 and good friends with The Hub's director Victoria Hand. Plus, Pierce likes him. I wouldn't be surprised if he's elected to be the next Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"But he's not HYDRA."

"We pull his strings. For the most part, he complies. Not in this case, though. Word has it, he thinks she's got potential."

Hermione flushes and lowers the toilet lid, waddling over to the sink, her chains clicking on the tile. "I would laugh and roll my eyes, but Natalia's no stranger in getting people in seeing the best in her. Survival tactic. You should've seen her in the Red Room. She had the instructors wrapped around her finger. So what exactly does he think she's got potential for?"

Brock shrugs and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired and when she sees herself in the mirror, she thinks they make quite a pair. She's exhausted and wants this all over and done with.

"I wish there was more time to talk," he tells her, grimacing.

"We do have a lot to catch up on."

He presses his lips together, scratching at his scruff. He clears his throat and says, "Yeah, we do."

 _Bang, bang, bang!_ "Hurry it up in there, Agent!"

Hermione turns off the faucet, and Brock throws the bag over her head, escorting her out of the bathroom and back to the interrogation room. They keep the chains and cuffs on her. When the bag is removed, Coulson is right where she left him, his expression both patient and eager. She lets out a soft, self-satisfied sigh and leans forward in her chair, hands resting on the table.

"Riyadh and Laban Valley," she divulges.

"Anywhere else?" he presses.

"Maybe Turkey but no specifics."

He fishes out a handheld notebook and pen. Very old school. He scribbles on the paper. "Any dates?"

"It's likely too late for Riyadh. Laban Valley, you might still have time."

"Hm." Coulson taps the tip of the pen on the table, expression curious. "Romanova sold you out."

Hermione says nothing.

"But not for the reason you think."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"Sure, I do. It's what I'd be thinking. That my close ally sold me out, so the enemy wouldn't kill or imprison her. No, we already got what we wanted from her by the time she gave us your name. She doesn't want you to put on trial or locked up. She wants you to work for us." Coulson puts his pen and pad away, clasping his hands together. "Romanova says you have a talent in getting inside people's heads. You know how they think and why."

" _She_ can do that."

He shakes his head. "Not like you. She plays dumb and weak to prey on the dumber and weaker. According to her, you just… _know_."

Hermione thinks of her bracelet and the very few times she's been allowed to double tap the clasp, so she could throw herself into someone else's mind. Before she got shipped off to the Middle East, she got a gift in the mail. A new, modified bracelet where she could lower the pulse frequency enough to better perform what the KGB wanted her to do in the first place. HYDRA found a way where she'd never have to remove the strap but still do her job.

She can't teleport, though. Or cover up blemishes and bruises. She can't _control_ someone's mind, but she can read it. Or turn a pen into knife and stab someone with it. That had been interesting to find out she could still shift objects a little on low-power mode.

"That's a skill we'd like to have on our side," adds Coulson.

Hermione shifts her gaze to the table, lazily drawing a pattern on the table with her finger tip. "I'm loyal to Mother," she says lightly in Russian.

"You're German," he accuses.

"It was all the same not terribly long ago."

Coulson sighs, not out of disappointment but impatience. "You know I'm pretty good at reading people, too."

"Well, if that were true, sir, I think you'd be in for a big surprise," she can't help but say, hoping if there's a HYDRA agent on the other side of the mirror that he or she doesn't have a heart attack.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She quickly recovers with a flirty wink and a smirk. "Oh, the things I want to do to you if our roles were reversed, and you were the one handcuffed to the table."

Pink hues his cheeks, and he pinches the knot of his tie. "What I mean is that I don't think you're loyal at all to the KGB or FSB or whatever they're calling themselves now. I don't think you ever were. You were just a kid born into the wrong family who saw an opportunity to toss you out because you were different. Your parents haven't even tried to find you, have they?"

Hermione flicks her eyes up at him, her drawing fingers curling into a fist. "The KGB," she says through clenched teeth, "is my family."

"Isn't that sad?" he replies. "You've been in our custody for over forty-eight hours. The FSB and SVR know we have you and have made no contact of any kind. I can't imagine the kind of hell you went through these past couple years in the Middle East. You served with severe dedication and honor. I admire you for that, but have they ever returned the favor? " He shows her that tasteless photo again. "If I saw one of my own in a situation like this, there's nothing I wouldn't do to get her out."

Hermione _stares_ at him because is this guy for real?

"I think you're a naturally good person, Agent Abegglen," he tells her. "A good person that's had a lot of bad things happen to her and did what she could to survive."

Coulson puts away the picture. "I don't expect you to agree with me or even jump at the opportunity to work with us., but I can't stress enough that we're the good guys. Despite that, we can't let you go, either. You are considered an enemy of the United States government, so we have to take you in and treat this situation like every other apprehended suspect."

The door opens and handful of officers enter the room, one of them carrying a light blue jumpsuit and a pair of blue and white step-ins. He sets it on the table, and Hermione gets the impression HYDRA isn't at all going to be swooping in to make the inevitable transition from KGB operative to S.H.I.E.L.D. easy. Hell, Sitwell should be knocking on the door by now and excusing Coulson, informing him her case is being handled by someone different.

HYDRA hasn't come for her when it'd be so simple which means…they want her to play along.

In retrospect, it makes sense. Secures herself, even, by selling the part. Why would certain S.H.I.E.L.D. agents be bustling into a Russian spy's interrogation room to make anything better for her when she's already got a chance to wipe her slate clean and start over as an intelligence operative for the U.S.

Her status as a double agent isn't over yet.

Coulson's suit jacket is taken from her and the manacles are temporarily removed, so she can don the jumpsuit, socks, and shoes. The foot and ankle manacles are put back in place as is the bag over her head. She's guided back out into the hallway and then outside, and she senses it's night. She's only outside for a few moments before being put in a vehicle where she stays for at least an hour. When the car pulls over, and she gets out, she hears the sound of helicopters in the distance and small craft airplanes taking off.

She's led up a ramp and then a metallic flight of stairs and down what she senses a narrow walkway before being coaxed to sit down. She hears the sound of cuffs being clicked open and closed, and feels her chains being tightened. The bag over her head isn't even removed until takeoff and that's when her suspicions are confirmed. She's harnessed to the seat. So tightly in fact, she can barely move.

Coulson sits across from her, a self-satisfied smile in place.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she tells him, cracking a smile of her own.

"You should get some rest," he tells her. "We're going to be in the air for a few hours, so you've got time."

"Where are you taking me?" And she really is curious. She's trying to think what basic S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol would be, but it has never been her job to know. She doubts they're taking her directly to Washington D.C. or even the U.S. for that matter. They're likely taking her to another base where they can hold her for an extended period of time.

"A safe place."

She can't resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Will Romanova be there?"

"She'll be keeping her distance." Coulson then adds, "But she does want to see you."

Hermione smirk wickedly. "The feeling is mutual."

"Get some rest," he repeats, maneuvering his food tray into place and flipping open his briefcase which occupied his neighboring seat. "I've got to catch up on _Judging Amy_ "

She frowns, watching him remove a portable television from briefcase and setting on his tray. He pushes a button on the device and then elongates and fiddles with the antennae. Another button push here and there, and music cracks through the sound of white noise.

Who the hell is this man?

Hermione couldn't have been asleep more than an hour when she's waking up to Coulson hitting his little television against his tray.

"Dammit," he curses. "Signal went out." He turns off the device and tosses it aside, catching her eye in the process. He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, I woke you."

She shrugs, swallowing and wetting her mouth. It's dry. She's thirsty, and she feels both hot and cold at the same time. The air-conditioning is blowing directly on her face, but the jumpsuit is warm and itchy.

"Hey, Coulson." A short, attractive Asian woman comes bounding down the walkway, a spunky spring in her step. "The guys are playing Scrabble up here. Come show them how it's done."

"Are you going to stay with the suspect?" he asks expectantly.

She snorts. "Yeah, right? Rumlow said he'll take over. He's getting his ass handed to him."

Coulson stands up and makes a mildly perplexed face. "He's usually not that bad. All right, we'll switch off."

The two disappear down the walkway passed a curtain where a few moments later, Brock passes through. He's got a full-wired com in his ear which he taps, letting her know they can't speak freely.

"I'm thirsty," she tells him.

"Don't press your luck, kid." He falls into Coulson's abandon seat with a heavy sigh and then clocks behind him before reaching down to one of the flaps of his cargo pants and removing a silver pouch. There's a yellow straw attached to the back of it which he rips off and jams into the top of the pouch on the opposite side. He reaches over and puts it in her cuffed hands.

 _Capri Sun,_ it reads.

The juice is sugary and fruity and instantly clears the fog mucking her brain. Absentmindedly, she contemplates the sturdiness of the straw. Potentially, if needs be, she could use it as means to defend herself if necessary. It's as if Brock reads her mind because the second the pouch is empty, he's taking it and the straw away from her.

"You think too loud, sweetheart."

"I'm hungry."

He looks at her like she's crazy, his eyes asking, 'What do you want from me?'

"Please." She widens her eyes a bit and tucks her in chin, biting her bottom lip, as well.

"You just ate," he grumbles, fishing at another flap in his pants, tossing a granola bar into her lap.

"I'm bored," she tells him, once she finishes her last bite of granola bar. He's already rubbing the bridge of his nose, and when she speaks, he lets out a manic, exhausted chuckle. She wonders when he slept last? She pictures him sleeping, sprawled and selfishly like he had done as a child so long ago on that boat. But she also tries to picture him matured and not always alone. He looks like the type of man who prefers a leggy, blue-eyed blonde.

"So Germany, huh?" He resettles himself in his seat. "Which part?"

Hermione arches a brow at him, and shrugs one shoulder and mouths, 'What else are we going to do?'

"Like I would tell you," she counters haughtily.

"We have three hours," he tells her. He leans back his head, looking at the cabinets above them. He gets up and opens them, moving and touching things she can't quite see before offering her a book.

'I remember you liked these,' he mouths.

She reads the title and lets out a chuckle. _Red Rabbit._ How ironic, she thinks.

To Be Continued...


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Hello, guys! Thanks so much for your reviews and such. Hope you enjoyed the last chapter and the same goes for this one. Apologies for any errors. Tell me your thoughts. Adore you all!**

 **Chapter 16: Bad Seeds in the Apple**

The plane lands, and she smells damp saltiness and feels the breeze of the ocean. She hears the subtle sound of waves nearly drowned out by a nearby helicopter taking off. Her head is covered again, so she's still not positive where she is, but she's clever enough to guess. They wouldn't take her to the U.S. right away but to a base. She's likely on a ship. Likely a semi-impressive one if both an airplane and a helicopter are on the landing strip.

She's tired of being cuffed and blinded. But she might just be plain tired, too and sort of looks forward to the cell they'll put her in. The cell will likely have a cot. In the past fifty plus hours, she's slept maybe an hour and privileged only one proper meal. Her body wants to shut down. Her body houses a familiar achiness. She's no stranger to starvation and sleep-deprivation, but her system now recognizes it's no longer in danger and wants to recover.

Maybe… _maybe_ she could go another day without sleeping, but she nourishment, or she'll pass out. Her metabolism is too fast for any of these people to know or understand. They starved and dehydrated her for two days before giving her a meal. She needs another, or she'll be of no use to the more formal interrogation they likely have planned for her.

They walk for what seems like a half hour. There must be no elevator on the ship. Just levels and levels of stairs, each step threatening to be the one to take advantage of her weakening knees. Finally, they have her sitting down at a table. The bag is taken off her head, and she promptly lowers it onto the surface. Her eyes flutter shut, and she's out for what feels like hours but is jerked awake at the pricking sensation of a needle being stabbed into her forearm.

She sits up straight and glares at the man in the white lab coat next to her. She's about to ask what he's doing when she notices the IV line and rack he's fiddling with, both attached to her. She reads the bags, afraid they're pumping her full of all kinds of narcotics in prep for a more _interesting_ interrogation but is relieved to see he's giving her saline, lactated ringers, and dextrose. A rush of liquid cold chills and swells her veins, and she lets out a soft, shivering moan.

"Feeling better?" asks the man.

She nods lethargically and scans her surroundings, and she's in another interrogation room not unlike the one she left behind in Russia.

"I think your blood sugar is very low. I'm going to tell them you need something to eat," he says. He points at the line. "Don't try and remove that."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she mumbles.

He leaves the room and finds her eyelids slipping closed again. This time she just lets her head fall to her chest but couldn't have been asleep for ten minutes before the door opens again and for God's sake, it's Sitwell. She fantasizes about wrapping her IV line around his neck and choking the life out him.

He's not looking so put together at the moment. His tie's askew as are his glasses. He also appears to be dripping wet, and he's shouting at someone in the hallway. It sounds like Coulson.

"You are a junior officer," she hears Coulson accuse.

"I've been promoted to Level 5," fires Sitwell.

"In the last twenty-four hours? Listen, you can't just come in on that big fancy helicopter and steal her from me. You had nothing to do with her being apprehended. You were in Washington cozying up to those godforsaken politicians."

"Those politicians get us the funding for those zeroes on your paycheck."

"For as much brownnosing you do, there should be a hell of a lot more."

Sitwell sighs, adjusting his tie and righting his glasses. He paints a perfect mask of sympathy on his face. "Look, I get it, but it doesn't change anything. Her case has been handed over to me, and they want you and the team back in D.C. as soon as possible. I didn't take this from you, Coulson. I didn't ask for it."

"Sure you didn't," Coulson clips.

Hermione hears his footfalls fade, and Sitwell eventually closes the door and then looks at the mirror in the room pointedly, clearing his throat before looking at her with utter ambivalence. She tries to keep her own features schooled, but she can't help but narrow her gaze on him but a little. He rounds the table and sit down opposite her, his back to the mirror.

"My name is Agent Sitwell. I'll be over your case from now on."

"Pleasure," she replies dryly.

Sitwell fiddles nervously with the knot of his tie, and he's unable to hide the guilt in his expression He fouled up and knows it. She wonders if his superiors gave him hell. She certainly hopes so.

"Look, I imagine you're exhausted, so I'm only going to ask a few questions. We'll get to the meat of it tomorrow." He pauses and his eyes dart to the side. A rookie move of someone listening to their ear-com.

"I'm hungry," she tells him.

He smiles icily, and she can't tell if it's directed at her or the people likely yelling at him in his ear. "You'll be provided something when you're comfortable in your quarters."

"You mean my cell."

"A temporary situation." Sitwell smiles. "I read Agent Coulson's report. He sees promise in you and despite what you may have overhead just a few seconds ago, I respect him very much."

Hermione can't help but arch a brow because the man's not lying. Not putting on a show for the agents behind the mirrors. Sitwell's genuine on his words about Coulson, and Hermione reflects on her time spent with him. She got no HYDRA vibe from him. He's pure S.H.I.E.L.D., through and through.

She thinks of how Coulson gave her his blazer, her favorite meal, and looked at her with such raw conviction when he told her he believed her to be a good person. She had shrugged his naivety and ignorance off but if a fellow HYDRA operative his willing to vouch for a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, maybe she was too hasty to judge.

Maybe he did see something in her.

"I…" She hesitates and then discloses, "I can see why you would."

Sitwell removes a tape recorder from his breast pocket and pushes the recording button. "Just a few questions and we'll be done. I promise they won't be too hard."

She nods, a part of her now wishing Couslon the one to be here instead of Sitwell. Perhaps Coulson would've been more timely and notified her the enemy was on their way to take her in long before they reached her door step.

"State your full name and age."

"Milas Edda Abegglen. Twenty-three."

"Where were you born?"

"Dresden, Germany."

"How old were you when you were submitted into the Black Widow program?"

Hermione blinks, and she regards Sitwell in confusion. "Black Widow program…?"

"Intelligence has labeled—"

"I see." She holds up a hand to stop him from elaborating. "I was eleven when my uncle took me in where very shortly after, enrolled me into Chelintsov's program."

"Your uncle's name."

"Filpe Jankiv."

"Paternal or maternal?"

"Mother's side."

Sitwell takes out a handheld notepad and felt-tip marker, sliding both across the table towards her. "I would like for you to write down your instructors' names every girl you remember in the Red Room."

Hermione stares at the pen and notepad for a long moment and then flicks her a gaze back to Sitwell. "I'm sure Romanova gave you everything."

He sighs, dipping his chin. "I get it. We'll continue this tomorrow."

He gets up from the chair and looks at the mirror, crooking his fingers. The men who enter are different ones than before. Brock isn't among them, and she finds herself mildly annoyed he's not.

She's taken to an 10x10x10 cell with a constantly flushing toilet, but there's a cot welded to the wall, so she doesn't care. It looks like a pile of goose feathers to her, and she practically leaps onto it the moment she's free from her chains. She's halfway out before the unit shuts the door but is startled awake when the narrow slot on the door creaks open and tray slides through. She rushes at it and is only mildly disappointed when seeing a bowl of thin chicken soup, an almost stale roll, a fruit cup, and a carton of milk. It's no Baltic Sprat, but it's food.

She sleeps but it doesn't feel like very long, for she's taken out of the cell and put back into the interrogation room. Sitwell is waiting for her again, and he offers the same notepad and pen.

"Every girl in the Red Room, Agent Abegglen."

She keeps her eyes trained on him, her jaw set. Why was he asking this of her? They should already have the names.

"You already know. Romanova likely gave you all the names—"

"We want to compare—"

She drowns out his voice with her own thoughts, thinking why S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA wanted the information. HYDRA hadn't cared all that much at the time when she was in the Red Room on who she'd been training with. They never asked about the other girls, though she did mention Romanova on several occasions to Baron.

Hermione considers the notepad and imagines the girl's names on them and then it dawns on her why they're asking. It could _possibly_ be they wanted it as a sign of good faith or compare it to the list Romanova gave them. But then again, there's a chance she never gave them a list of the Red Room girls. Because even though she switched sides, revealing every girl who attended would be the ultimate betrayal. Not of the KGB but of friendship. Sisterhood, even. It was a crime even the famous Black Widow couldn't commit.

It's a test. Sitwell. HYDRA, they're testing Hermione's loyalty. _Again_. If she doesn't write downs the names, she'll be seen as a traitor. They'll think she's gone native or something.

Oh, God, she wants to vomit. She can't. She can't do it. Those girls. Even though HYDRA always had her heart, the girls around her were the only tangible things keeping her sane when the walls would close in. They nurtured and instructed her better than teachers and better than the instructors at the HYDRA facility. Better than Baron.

She's not loyal to the KGB, but for those girls, she would almost do anything for them.

She swallows. "I can give you names of high-ranking operatives of the Chechen Republic who plan and organize attacks…"

Sitwell's expression turns somber and disappointed, and she lurches forward to grab his hands, surprising him. "You don't know what you're asking of me."

"I understand, Abegglen," he tells her softly. "I really do. But you will be tried and imprisoned for the rest of your life. Capital punishment could even be a possibility because we know not all the things you did in Kuwait and Pakistan were good. Civilian casualties. A maid at the hotel. A man you used as a living shield to protect yourself from gunfire. There are a few others. Romanova also may or may not have divulged that you killed in the Red Room an MI-6 agent and a CIA agent, both working as double agents."

Sitwell lets go of her hands and puts the pen in right one. It hangs loosely between her pointer and middle finger, and she says numbly, "Romanova didn't give you anything but me out of the Red Room. This isn't to compare anything."

Sitwell says nothing, and she stares at the blank sheet of notepad once more, realizing what she's about to do is worse than what Natalia did to her. If Coulson wasn't lying, then Natalia betrayed her to save her or something like that. Hermione writing down the other girls' names would be about saving her own skin.

She could lie. Make up names, but she'd be found out and then what?

Then what?

And really? She shouldn't be so attached. So sentimental. They're the enemy, but she can't help but hate herself and be enraged with HYDRA as she scribbles down twenty-six names which include the three who were killed.

Hermione reckons Natalia will regret coughing her up if the woman ever finds out what she did.

"Good," says Sitwell taking the pad from her. He has to wrench the pen from her grip, though, because she's contemplating stabbing him in the neck with it and painting Fuck You HYDRA on the walls with his blood before stealing his gun and blowing her own brains out.

God, she's being dramatic. But her insides hurt. She needs to shift gears. She needs to stop thinking emotionally.

She forces the ache from her chest and her mind to find peace in the larger picture that is HYDRA. These are small sacrifices and will lead to a more controlled and brighter future for everyone. These girls were practically her kin but could very well pose a threat to a new world order that will surely come soon.

Right?

She's shaking. Rage and grief toxify her bloodstream.

The pen breaks and ink drips over her hand.

"That's quite a grip you got there." Sitwell chuckles nervously, his eyes darting around pleadingly.

"You will not tell Natalia what I did."

Sitwell seems to consider her words and then his chin dips. "Your entire interrogation is entirely confidential."

"I would like to go back to my cell," she tells him.

"Your interrogation is just beginning."

"I would like to go back to my cell," she repeats.

Sitwell touches the skin below ear. "All right," he whispers. He then looks at her. "It's fine. We'll take you back. Get you some breakfast."

Breakfast is a bit more luxurious than dinner. And it could be because Sitwell or whoever sympathized she had to give up all those names. She is served French toast with fresh fruit and peppered bacon. The eggs are reconstituted, but everything else looks good. Even smells good. But tastes like ash. Her stomach coils and coils, heart low and souring in the pit of her stomach.

On the breakfast tray, there is a small capsule with two pills and a tiny note. _For sleeping_ , it reads. She pops them into her mouth and downs them with the rest of her chocolate milk. After using the noisy toilet, she climbs into her cot and lets the pills do their magic. When she wakes up, there's a woman standing against the opposite wall, smartly dressed and sporting black-rimmed designer glasses. There should be a briefcase or something occupying her hands to complete the image of pure professionalism, but there's nothing. Her arms are folded softly and right above her ribs.

"Good afternoon, Agent Abegglen," says the woman, her voice rich and African accented. "I'm Dr. Diana Chikelu. I'm going to be helping you and assisting Agent Sitwell for the next while in adjusting to S.H.I.E.L. D. and seeing whether you'll make a great asset to us or a more fitting prisoner."

"Hm."

The woman steps forward and offers her hand. She's wearing a plain gold band on her middle finger. Hermione can see a small v-like shape engraved in it, and she purses her lips. The doctor is HYDRA but not a descendant from Red Skull. She's from an older sect of the theology where Hermione knows very seldom about, but just that Gideon Malick is deep in that part of it.

Hermione takes the woman's hand, shaking it. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

* * *

In the back of his mind, Baron Von Strucker holds worry for Milas. He truly does. She's special to him, and if he allowed himself. he might even love her. But he's a practical man at the mercy of even more practical-minded people. They were right in saying she's a disaster waiting to happen. They're also right in saying it'd be foolish to kill her when there's a chance she may one day come in handy. Weapons akin to the atomic and hydrogen bombs aren't necessary for every hurdle HYDRA encounters, so they'll hold onto her despite her having her own mind.

But just in case she needs to be put down like a rabid dog...

There's a knock on his door, and Strucker allows the woman to enter his office. Ms. Bērziņš rushes in, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Good news, he takes it. After six years of failed tests and tireless research, a damn victory is due.

"Yes?" he asks.

She nods her head. "We have a break-through. We have stabilized the product."

"Excellent. Start human trials."

The woman bristles, her lips parting in surprise. "Mice are more practical. Besides, we don't have any human subjects ready-"

"The children."

"Strucker, _no._ "

"They're shutting us down, Olga." Strucker slowly walks to his window. It's early. The sun is barely starting to discolor the night, and he sees small shadows clumped together, sprinting about. He feels for them. He really does. ""we are in the middle of a civil dispute. HYDRA does not want to put up the money for relocation. On top of that, the ones who graduate live an average of seven years before they are killed."

"Those are just the ones meant for the field.

"In the past thirty years, we have but produced maybe ten outstanding operatives." He gestures to the window. Her skin has paled considerably in the last few seconds. She knows she can argue all she wants, but the situation is out of their hands. These children, are in many ways, more hers and than his, and he can sense the devastation from within her. There are forty-seven children in the compound, and the serum is basically poison. As mentioned before, Strucker is a practical man. He knows forty-seven children won't be enough. All the tiny and pubescent bodies will reject the toxic elements but maybe then, he can move on to mice before taking on more human subjects.

"There must be another way."

"What would you suggest? Round them and get a firing squad?"

"Well, we can't just distribute it like it's their vaccinations. The first few die, they're going to put two and two together and know what's happening. They'll rebel. They'll fight us. They might even succeed. We trained them to."

"Then we distribute it all at once. Figure out a way."

Ms. Bērziņš gives a hesitant nod and then leaves when just a few minutes ago, she'd been so pleased and excited. A shame, really.

Strucker watches the younger teenagers take their turn around the facility. Such promise and energy in their uniform strides.

Such a shame.

To Be Continued...


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Oooookay! I apologize for the delay on this chapter. I think I rewrote this sucker four times. I wanted it to be perfect because it's over two years later in the fic and a lot has taken place in between those two years-but all filler stuff that needn't be included in the actual story line, only referred to in the present time. On top of that, there's a lot going on in this chapter. Like a _ton_.**

 **Just a reminder that I'm putting my own timeline into MCU's weird timeline. This fic takes place between 1987-2016, and I will not promise a sequel.**

 **Thank you, SwiftyTheWriter, Color o life, FaeBreeze, KmyD, Arcane Charmcaster, meldz, Littlemissmoffey, and Honestly don't you two read for the reviews.**

 **Thank you followers of the fic, as well.**

 **Thank you, readers. Do enjoy Chapter 17**

 **Chapter 17: Day Sleeper**

 **Outskirts of Zabol, Late 2005**

 **2:33 A.M.**

Peering through the infrared binoculars, she gazes across the border. It's not as guarded as it could be. She could cross by driving up the crack several miles and hop the border relatively undetected. Relatively being stressed, but it's not the border patrol making her nervous. She hasn't even decided if she'll get herself into Afghanistan the old-fashioned way. Her wrist is free, and she's more than ready to break more rules.

But she's got one teeny, tiny little problem, and she can't get rid of it. Not yet.

Hermione lowers the binoculars and looks at the man next to her. He hasn't budged or fidgeted or twitched in the slightest in the last three minutes.

"I need your help," she says in Russian.

The Winter Soldier slowly slides his gaze to her, his face completely void of expression. "I don't serve you," he dully supplies in English.

"I'm HYDRA, dumbass."

"I don't serve _you_."

"Then why are you still standing here?"

His blue eyes drop to the side, like he's actually _thinking_ and then locks with hers again. "My mission," he replies firmly.

"Our missions happen to be in the same place." She sets the binoculars down on the hood of the Humvee. "Which doesn't explain why you're still here. I gave you the coordinates, like, twenty minutes ago."

He stares.

For a while.

He's short-circuiting which explains the abrupt change to American English. He's been out of cryo-freeze too long. He didn't bolt when she gave him the location of Cruz-Gesenko, and he hasn't tried to murder her in the last ten minutes. HYDRA is scouting for him, no doubt, but if he's not going to leave her side, she might as well make use of him before handing him back over.

The last time she saw him dragged away from her and thrown in that chair, she had _felt_ for him. She had doubted HYDRA because of it. Now she doesn't feel anything for him, the bastard. He shot Natalia, and the only doubt for HYDRA she has at the moment is the concern they didn't zap him hard enough. He disobeyed orders. Natalia was not the target, goddammit, and now she could be dead. This could all be for not. Just a trick. A trick in an already unfair game. All to lure her back to Kabul. She hadn't counted on Natalia being fatally hurt.

She side-glances nervously in the border's direction. They need to get going. The clock's ticking.

"I don't have transportation. Kabul is far from here."

"You are leaning on a fucking car!" she hissed.

"Kabul is far from here," he repeats.

"Will you take off your mask. I can't understand a damned thing you're saying."

He pauses and then gingerly removes the black mask covering half his face. The goggles remain. "There is a small distance between me and my mission always. I don't know what to do."

"I will give you something to do."

"You have no authority over me."

Hermione removes her gun from its holster and points it at his face, flicking off the safety. "You were saying?"

"I don't want to hurt you," he tells her.

He really has been out and about too long. His body's rigid, but he hasn't attacked. There's somebody threatening the outcome of his mission and life, and he's mildly disturbed and giving her an out.

"Do you recognize me, Soldier?" she inquires. "We've met before today. Do you remember?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He lingers on her for a long time and then shifts his face off to the side. "Yes."

She huffs and takes a step forward. "How about Natalia? Did you recognize her?"

"Who?"

"The woman you shot in Odessa!"

"What woman?"

"The one who got in between you and Cruz-Gesenko."

He's quiet for a moment. "Agent Natasha Romanoff. Former KGB and enemy of HYDRA."

"She's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," she stresses. "You weren't supposed to shoot _her_."

"She saw me and blockaded me from my mission." A metal finger touches his pinna. "I was instructed to take the shot. My target was kneeling, and she stood in front of him. I got her. The target is still alive, but others came before I could finish him. I was told to retreat back to Iran and wait for further instruction, but you came first."

"Did you see her die?"

He appears puzzled by the question. "Who?"

"Romanoff! Did you kill her? I need to know now."

He lowers his gaze slightly, focusing below her face, but he seems to be in a daze. "I…avoided her head and chest. I thought the bullet would exit through her torso and hit my target. It didn't."

Hermione lets out an impatiently shaky breath. She rubs her forehead and pinches her eyes closed. "Who gave you the order to shoot?"

"What?"

"You had a com in your ear. Someone told you to take the shot. Who was it?"

"I don't know."

"Was it the same person who sent you out on this mission?"

The Soldier shakes his head no. "I know no names. Only HYDRA and sometimes my targets."

That makes her pause. He…doesn't know the names? The sympathy is starting to creep up again regardless that he shot Natalia. The doubt is showing its ugly face again, too, and she wonders why him and why so long condemn him to this miserable existence. Was it a personal and pathetic 'fuck you' to the dead man responsible for Schmidt's failure? It couldn't possibly be that James Buchanan Barnes was in anyway special. The only thing he had going for him was the he might've been a Sharp Shooter.

Hermione recalls how Barnes begged her to kill him seven years ago. She read his mind and felt his desperation to be finished. She hadn't then for several reasons, but now those reasons don't bother her so much. They don't scare her. HYDRA would never replace her to be the Winter Soldier, and she and him are about to go on dangerous adventure anyway. There's a chance he might die, and no one would second guess it was she who killed him.

She flicks the safety back on the gun and holsters it.

"We should get going." She opens the driver's side door. "If you want to complete your mission."

* * *

 **24 Hours Earlier**

 **Washington D.C.**

"What the hell happened, Agent?"

Hermione pauses at the threshold of Nicholas Fury's office. Said man stands in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He's facing the wall, plasma screen mounted to it, the channel on E!News is on. Tony Stark, behind designer shades, coming out of his corporate building in Los Angeles. He salutes the paparazzi from his Astin Martin before climbing in and disappearing from view. A few moments later, a strawberry-blonde haired woman runs out of the building and waving after him, a peeved expression on her face.

"I didn't get the job," she replies. "We knew it was a possibility I wouldn't."

He turns to look at her. "You were supposed to get. The job. By any means necessary."

"If I would've known I was allowed to play nasty with other candidates, I would've sabotaged Virginia Potts. You weren't specific enough, and I did what you expected of me." Hermione clasps her own hands behind her back and walks towards Fury, eyeing the screen. "So I slept with him. Thinking if I gave him the best fuck of his life, he'd keep me." She smiles wide and carelessly. "Apparently, a good lay doesn't make up what an utter asshole he is, and even with my skills- _all_ of my skills-I couldn't pretend I cared at all for his well-being or his enterprise."

Fury stares at her, murderously bemused.

"I learned something." She cocks her head to the side and smirks. "About him. Well...a few things."

"I'm not interested in his fetishes-"

"I learned that when dealing with him, give him what he needs and not what he wants. Of course by that point, I was back on a plane to Atlanta. "

"Is that how Potts outshined you?"

"I think so." Hermione nods. "They'll do good work together. She's good for him."

Fury lets out a long, exasperated. "This was a mission, Agent, and you failed it. You failed me. You're supposed to have a good read on people. This should've been cake."

Hermione sobers. "I know," she says gently. "But I've had a month to accept I screwed it up. You're behind the times, sir."

"I've been away these past few weeks working on some other things. I only got word last night of what happened. I read your report." He gives her a meaningful look. "And when I say by any means necessary, I don't mean sleep with the guy. I would never expect that from you _or_ Natasha or any of field agents for that matter. S.H.I.E.L.D. is not the KGB."

"Understood. How should I proceed in remedying my mistake?"

"Let's not forget the rebels in Afghanistan have gotten their hands on Stark's weapons, and it was up to you to find out how. And as of yesterday morning," Fury removes several photos from his drawer and spreads them out in front of Hermione, "bombshells found in the debris that hit northern Sokovia. It confirms again someone in Stark Enterprises is dealing under the table. It was your job to find out who."

"Sokovia?" Hermione studies the pictures, and sure enough, Stark's name is on the shells are scattered amongst broken and scattered buildings. There are mangled bodies and hurt civilians in the photos, as well.

"Ever been there?"

"Can't say I have though not too far from home." She glances at Fury. "I know it's not Stark dealing. That much I know."

"I know."

"I can go back in. Not as his assistant but—"

"We've already placed another agent inside. He's taken Pott's old job in accounting and will be keeping a close eye on the company's money transfers."

"…I see."

"It's a job beneath your skills, so I didn't consider you. Truth is, I didn't demand your ass here just to lecture you. I have another job for you. It's a proposition, not an operation. Not an undercover operation, anyway."

"If this is about Hand's offer about me being a liaison for the CIA, it's a hard pass." She swallows a wad of thick bile, and her palms feel clammy now. And like Murphy's Law, her pager buzzes. She silences it with a press of her button and tries not to vomit.

Fury rests his one eye on her, carefully studying her. "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Agent?"

"No, Director."

"You spent eighteen months in the Middle East, shuttling back and forth between countries. Your file doesn't explain a whole lot about your time there, and taking up the CIA gig would put you back in the thick of it. I'm sure you made some enemies."

"Well, I certainly didn't make friends," she retorts. "Not many, at least." And those she did, she killed.

Fury leans forward, eye narrowed. "Are you all right, Abegglen?"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine. I'm just—"

"Tired," he interjects, bemused.

"Stressed."

"About?"

"Personal matters."

"Right." Fury goes over to his desk. "Two weeks ago—the mission formulated by Pierce in Barcelona where you accompanied the Beta S.T.R.I.K.E. team to apprehend and question Garcia, Agent Sitwell made a note in the mission report how you and Agent Brock Rumlow engaged in a heated confrontation—."

"Which in no way shape or form ailed the mission. The argument I had with Rumlow took place _after_ the arrest and was in, what I thought, a private setting. And this is all beside the point because he's not _the_ or _a_ personal matter I'm stressing over. I think we're done here, so if you any more belated or pointless issues to discuss, be sure to notify Sitwell. He'll send you a report. Excuse me."

Hermione storms out of Fury's office, her pager on the lapel of her blazer buzzing all the while. She gets to elevator and hits the down button several times. When the door opens, _Baron_ is there because of course he is because today is not her day.

"Milas, what a surprise? You're stationed on the Lemurian, aren't you?"

"Mr. Von Strucker, hello." She can be cordial. Professional. She can be those things and push down her desire to be beat the shit out of him.

"You're still so beautiful," he whispers to her in reverence. He extends his hand to her, and she ignores it. "And still so upset. Milas, there was nothing I could do. I had orders." He looks behind himself, worried. "We shouldn't have this conversation here, and I may have some good new you may want to here."

She reluctantly follows him into an empty conference room and watches him remove a pen from his pocket, twisting the cap. "We have a few minutes. You heard about the bombings in Sokovia, I assume."

She nods.

"We have to take precautions. Pierce wishes to still keep the facility despite the unrest. It'll be a place for research and science. Experiments."

"Hm." She glances at her watch.

"In our meeting, he also let me know is that the culprit responsible for the depletion of HYDRA's funds. The reason why my program got eliminated in the first place."

That gets her attention. She flicks her gaze up at him, expectant.

"Seville Cruz-Gesenko. He is the one responsible for what happened. He stole over a hundred million from Malick and thought he could hide himself from us, but we found him. He will pay for his crimes against HYDRA. The asset will see to it."

"The soldier?" Hermione crosses her arm. Now there's a man she hasn't thought about it a long time. Never mind him, though. Baron thinks he can talk his way out of what he did. "It's changes nothing, Baron."

"There was nothing I could do-"

"You could've done what I told you. Invest your own money. Malick's not the only one nesting an impressive load. Those kids were supposed to be HYDRA's future, and they were wasted. Like me. You let it happen, and you're a coward for it."

The besotted mask of gentleness he sports dissolves into a flushed and irate snarl. "I'm the coward." He grabs her wrist and bunches up her sleeve, displaying her bracelet for both of them to see. "You still wear this, and I'm the coward?"

Her cheeks warm, but she doesn't look away.

"If you're so brave, girl, then take it off. Defy HYDRA. Betray the ones who gave you a life worth living instead of a pathetic, confined existence in a mental heath hospital because that is where you would be without this greater purpose. We must always focus on that, so when I was asked to get rid of the children, I complied. It was necessary after what Cruz-Gesenko did. You berate me for not investing my own funds into the program. Milas, Project Insight has been postponed. Cruz-Gesenko's treachery set us back five years. We'll be lucky to launch in 2012."

Hermione steps back, appalled. "That's absurd. How could the council be so careless to let that happen? _2012?"_

 _"_ If even that." He shakes his head. "We must look at the bright side in all this. Technology will be in more use and better reveal all those who could possibly threaten everything we our people have sacrificed. I'm am now the main benefactor of Project Insight until Malick is able to replenish the amount taken. _That_ above all else proceeds my program."

Her angers dwindles. "You should've told me. I would've understood-"

"You forget your place, Milas," he chided. "Even Sitwell doesn't know. Only a handful in the higher ranks know, and it will stay that way for the time being. You will not tell anybody, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Her gaze lowers and then snaps back to his face, narrowed. "You say Cruz-Vesenko will die."

He smirks and pats her cheek. "The Soldier will handle them."

"Them?" She frowns.

"That's all I can say. Everything else is classified." He squeezes her arms. "Dare I ask for your company this afternoon before my flight?"

He's withholding something massive from her. It's interesting, this new development. She can sense when someone's hiding something from her. There's a _shift_ which comes off people. It's heady and distracting. Especially in places like the Triskelion where the foundation and the walls are made of the most damning and malicious secrets. Baron's secret buzzes at the front of his brain, but her bracelet's frequency is strong. She can't breech his mind, nor is she allowed to. She bites her lip, painting a coy expression on her features. "I have plans, but I could cancel. If you tell me what else you're hiding."

There's a twinkle of consideration in his eyes. He pinches her chin and kisses her forehead, whispering into her skin. "Pity. Do tell Mr. Rumlow hello from me. He was always my favorite 48. Goodbye, Milas."

She leaves the room after him and takes the stairs down to the main level, pausing when seeing the seasonal and festive décor. In all the of the twenty minutes since she saw it the first time, she forgot the Christmas party taking place in the atrium. She almost considers making a b-line to the parking garage where her rental car waits for her when she sees Sitwell loitering at the punch bowl.

It's like he's asking for it.

"Hey, Abegglen." He simpers into his cup when seeing her coming towards him. "How'd your meeting with the boss go?"

"Oh, you know." She cups the back of his head and shoves his face into the pink, icy slosh. "It went so great."

He gurgles and jerks and people stare. There are mostly computer techs and lab rats who come to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party, anyway. Hardly any of them are field trained and are smart enough not to get in her business when drowning a fellow employee.

"You reported what happened with Rumlow, so I'm going to kill you."

Her pager buzzes, and she happily ignores it in favor of torturing Sitwell. When his jerking starts slowing and onlookers really start getting concerned enough to creep over like they want to say something, she releases her former S.O. and then slaps his sopped cheek hard enough to make him sway. She then grabs him by his tie and hisses in his ear. "In Barcelona, you divulged classified details of the Stark mission to the beta S.T.R.I.K.E. unit to make yourself look good, knowing completely not _everyone_ on the team would appreciate the information. When Rumlow confronted me _in private_ , you eavesdropped and made a report to Fury, again, to make yourself look good. Watch yourself, Sitwell."

He scrambles away form her. "Is that a threat?"

"Watch yourself," she repeats, stalking off to the parking garage where her rental is. She checks her phone and tosses it aside on the passenger seat, releasing a ragged breath. She squeezes her steering wheel and lets out a feral growl because she's not sure how long of this she can take. Not only is it getting harder and harder to hide what's going on, but she's quickly coming to the brink of madness. _He's_ catapulting her there and _knows_ he doesn't have to push her over. She'll jump. She'll jump, and he'll be waiting.

This is so far beyond 'ignore him, and he'll go away.'

Distraction. She needs a distraction and she hadn't been lying to Baron. She does have plans this late afternoon. Starting the car, she rolls out of the building and down the road-salted bridge, circling the Potomac . The roundabout is bustling and swollen with vehicles as are the freeways. It takes her over an hour to get to her destination, and there's no parking for visitors, so that's nice. She parks a few blocks down the way and is lucky to catch the complex entrance door as someone leaves. The lift is crowded, and she has to wait eight floors before getting off and marching to H13 and knocking. The door opens a crack, and Brock peeks out to glare at her.

"What the hell do you want, kid?"

"The Baron sends his best."

 _Slam!_

All right. That was a bit uncalled for on her part, but she couldn't resist. She knocks again, this time harder, "Open up, sweetie. You can't ignore me forever."

No answer or acknowledgement.

She bangs the flat of her palm on the door. She'll kick the door down if she has to. There's no leaving D.C. until this _thing_ they've got going is resolved. She's done seven missions this year with the Beta S.T.I.K.E. unit, and she'll do that many and likely more the next year. Their professional relationship needs to be in tiptop shape, or Sitwell will file another report, and Brock will lose his position because they're not going to dismiss Hermione. She's the best goddamned interrogator S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ever seen. Wherever she goes Beta follows and vise versa.

The abuse to his door carries on for several minutes until one of Brock's neighbors pokes her head out into the hallway and threatens to call the police. Hermione pulls her badge out of her blazer and shows it to her. "I _am_ the police. Return to your unit, ma'am. You don't want to get involved."

The woman pales, and her door shuts. A deadbolt sliding into place is heard.

Putting away her official badge she typically doesn't ever need to show to civilians, she lowers the pulse on her bracelet and palms the space of wood parallel to the door chain. She gets out _her_ key and unlocks deadbolt.

She'd been trying for politeness, but he's really got to get over his pride.

Inside his apartment, Hermione takes off her coat and drapes it over the sofa chair in the sitting area. Brock's got his back to her. He's in the kitchen and busily ignoring her while cooking. Her mouth salivates at the smell. When did she eat last? Early, early this morning in Atlanta at the Starbucks in the airport. A scone. For the rest of the day, she's been getting by with coffee and creamers and lemon water today. She's been so distracted today with her flight to the States and meeting with Fury, not to mention the influx of calls from that bastard, she'd forgotten to eat a proper meal.

Brock's making pasta, and it smells rich and authentic. She remembers he's half Italian. His mother's side. A muttered and divulged detail he shared with her when they were young, and he'd lament to her his cravings for Tuscan cuisine over their canned veggies and pink borscht.

"Feeling nostalgic?" She goes over to the counter and sits on the bar stool. "I do, too, sometimes." He's got a good bottle of wine next to the cutting board, and she grabs it and the corkscrew next to it. She can't get drunk or even tipsy, but she does enjoy the taste of a decent, earthy wine. She stabs the cork with the screw, twisting. "Remember the Souvlaki? You liked it, I recall."

"I'm expecting company," he tells her, throwing a towel over his shoulder, returning to the counter to finish mincing his garlic. "You got something to say, say it."

"Cancel it."

"You don't cancel on Morse. Have you seen her?" He puts down his knife and cups his hands, hovering them over his chest.

Hermione yanks the cork out with a satisfying _plthunk!_ "I field-trained her, you petulant imbecile. When she comes, I'm taking off all my clothes and answering the door and propositioning her for threesome." An idea dawns on Hermione and she takes a swig of wine straight from the bottle and then starts unbuttoning her blouse. "That'll be too rushed, though. I better do it now."

Brock is unaffected. _Seemingly_. He shrugs at her and goes about his business. "I'm not into Stark's sloppy seconds."

"He got the sloppy seconds." She keeps her bra and underwear on. They're not her sexiest pair. Plain black and high-cut boxer style. They'll do. She rounds the counter, resting her hand on the surface and drumming her nails. "I will not apologize for sleeping with Stark. I had a job. I will apologize for not ripping Sitwell's tongue out the first moment I met him."

Nothing.

She cocks her head, brow raised. "We had an agreement. One you _happily_ agreed to since I'm on the Lemurian, and you're here."

"Our agreement was that we didn't ask or tell. Sitwell running his mouth broke that agreement." He sets down his knife again. "I really, _really_ didn't want to know you whored yourself out to Tony Fucking Stark. Not after hearing about your past with Strucker."

"Let's make it even. Tell me all the women you've fucked while I've been on the ship. Better yet, tell me about _every_ woman you've had a go at. Let's put it all out there."

"It's different."

"Why?" She snaps. "Because you're the man?"

"Because you don't give a shit, Granger," he hisses. "Hell, you'd get off on it." He mutters distastefully, "Propositioning Morse."

She frowns at the use of her father's name, and hates that they both do this. They get so caught up with each other, they forget. Even though they've been who they are now longer than who they used to be. Sometimes it's not even Granger he calls her but Hermione and even though she calls herself her birth name inside her mind, hearing him say it startles her. Scares her.

A part of her loves it. Sometimes she debates the idea of asking him to call her Hermione when it's just them.

But he does _not_ like to be called Robert. Especially in the sack. Which she learned the...inconvenient way.

"Clearly, you're not comfortable with the idea of an open relationship and all the consequences it entails. The best thing for me to do at this point is put my clothes back on, get my stuff, and leave with the expectation we can still work well together during our ops." She steps forward and cups him through his trousers. "But first, there's something I've got to do. Then I'll go."

She lowers his fly and drops to her knees.

He doesn't let her leave, and Morse never did show up which Hermione's not surprised. The woman's flighty and flaky and, honestly, not idiotic enough to get involved with a member of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. They're not good for dating and typically unnecessarily mean, sexist as hell, and married to their jobs. Brock is all of those things, but Hermione doesn't mind. They understand each other and know each other better than anyone. He knows her better than Natalia which is why she's not interested in ending things with him. He fills a space within her where Natalia's not allowed to go.

That space is where her true origins rest. Where her true name is. Something Hermione definitely cannot ask Natalia to call her. _Ever_.

* * *

 _A little while later..._

"Where are you right now?"

She's snaps out of her stupor. A thought had bloomed in her head moments ago when she heard her phone in the other room. A bad thought. A terrifying thought. She lost herself in it, but she knows now she really can't go on with her phone ringing all the time. Even if she changes phones and numbers, it will still ring, and she's got to stop it. Ignoring the situation will only make it worse.

First things first.

She focuses on relaxing and lets herself feel how Brock moves within her. It's good. Really good. But her mind isn't with him. "I'm here," she lies.

"Are you?" He lifts her leg and rests her calve on his shoulder, his thrusts reaching deeper and grazing _that spot_.

Her eyes flutter shut. That's good. She arches her back and bites her lip because she's close to enjoying herself to the point of forgetting her problems for a few moments.

"Harder."

"Yeah?" He chuckles, slipping out of her and rolling her onto her stomach. Her phone rings in the other room, and she bury's her face into the pillow.

"Is that your phone?"

"Ignore it," she muffles into the pillow. "Yank my hair and hold my head down. Hurt me."

He roughly coils his fingers around her curls, obliging. "It might be work."

"You really want to stop, so I can answer it?"

"God, no!" His free hand slips from her hip to in between her legs.

"Ye-ESSS! Oh, oh! Right there!" Hermione digs her fingernails into the sheets, her climax finally washing over her. She burrows her face further into the pillow and lets out a loud moan, Brock reaching his own peak with out a hiss and spilling inside her. She rolls onto her back, panting a little, and she cups his face. The tips of her fingers comb his damp hair.

"Kiss me," she says. "You haven't at all since I got here."

"I'm still afraid you're going to tear me apart like your promised. Each." Kiss. "And every." Kiss and nip. "Time I do."

"I do tear you apart. You love it."

He drops to kiss her again, but his lips brush her chin and then her chest, lingering at each swell of her breasts and then moving between her ribs. His thumb brushes over her scar above her pelvis, and an inquisitive expression flickers across his face. It's the first time he's even paid any attention to it, and she understands why he ignores it. It's a terrible memory. For both of them.

"I bet this has been an interesting conversation starter." His tone is dark and troubled.

She rolls her eyes. "You have no idea. Most of the time I just hide it."

"It's as big as my palm. How the hell do you do that?"

She sits and touches her bracelet. "This thing stops me from doing my worst, but I can lower the pulse on it." She slips her finger underneath the band and presses one of the two nodules before moving Brock's hand out of the way and covering the scar with her own. A few seconds later, she removes her hand and shows him the seemingly unblemished skin above her pelvis.

"That's..."

"Pathetic," she finishes. "In comparison to how you know first-hand what I'm capable of."

"Birds," he mutters, a far away look on his face.

Her phone goes off again in the other room, and she takes a deep, frustrated breath. She closes her eyes and cups her forehead. "I think I really need to get that. Get some sleep, all right?"

She crawls out from underneath him and grabs at her clothes.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He frowns at her. "You're leaving?"

She pulls on her underwear and slips on her bra. "I've got to get back to base which means I've got to catch a flight which means I have to _go_."

She puts on her skirt, and Brock shoves on his boxers and follows her out into the sitting room where her discarded boots and purse are. Her phone's ringing inside the purse, and she hesitates to answer, but sees it's Clint Barton. He never calls her. She only has his number because Natalia put it in her phone in case of emergencies.

The ringing stop by the time she's ready to answer but starts back up again immediately. It's not Barton this time. It's _him_.

"Jesus Christ, Milas," snaps Brock. "What the hell's going on? Who's calling you nonstop? It can't be the end of the world because mine's not going off."

"What?" she strains into the speaker.

" _My compound. I will text you the coordinates. I have Natasha Romanoff. You have forty-eight hours to show yourself, or your pretty little spider dies."_

To be Continued...


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Hey, just a heads up! I made a few modifications in the last chapter. Nothing huge but just some adjustments to make this chapter smoother, so if you want pop on back and review chapter 17, feel free to do so.**

 **Thank you, readers and reviewers and followers.**

 **Enjoy the new chapter. Thank you for the your patience with it. Please leave a review and tell me your thoughts.**

 **Chapter 18: Masters and Slaves**

" _My compound. I will text you the coordinates. I have Natasha Romanoff. You have forty-eight hours to show yourself, or your pretty little spider dies."_

The line disconnects, and Hermione tosses an impish smile over her shoulder. "It's the base. They've got a juicy one needing squeezed. They want me to meet with him before they hand him over to the CIA. That is, if Gonzales doesn't decide to fire me first. I've been, and I quote "disdainfully ignorant.'" She sits down on the couch, shoving her boots on and she grabs her coat that's draped over the edge of it. "We'll do this again. We always do."

"Put in a transfer request. Work for Fury full time. Live here in D.C," Brock says.

"Why would he want me all the time when he's got the golden girl that is Romanoff? Plus, I sort of bombed the Stark job." She saunters up to Brock and pecks him on the jaw. "I have meetings at the Triskelion three times a month. You know this. I've never been a stranger."

He made it clear-as she blew him in the kitchen-he was done sharing her. If an assignment required her to sleep with someone, she better make damned sure he didn't hear about it ever again.

She leaves his apartment and takes the stairs to the parking garage. As she peels out of there, she calls Barton and puts him on speaker phone.

" _When I see you again, you're fucking target practice_. _"_

She presses on the gas. "What happened?"

"Natasha didn't make the rendezvous point with her package. She made it to Odessa when communication failed. The last thing Hill received from her was that she was being tailed."

Clint speaks like she knew Natalia is on assignment and in retrospect, she did. Nat's always working. "What was the package?"

"That's classified—"

"Barton!"

He lets out a sigh. "Cruz-Gesenko. Nuclear Engineer."

Hermione stares at her phone because surely she hadn't heard right.

 _"Abegglen!"_

"What was her mission?"

 _"Main priority was to get him out of Iran and to Russia. He requested a private meeting with Fury. He implied he's got something major to tell him."_

"You've got to be kidding me." She takes in a deep breath and tries to calm herself by internally speaking soothing words of comfort. Like, there's no chance HYDRA will be exposed because of one minor slip-up of Hermione's almost three years ago. No way. It's not logical in the least.

She sees the Triskelion across the Potomac. She shakes her head and squeezes the steering wheel. "Look, Barton, I know where she is."

If she's not already dead and this is just a ploy to lure Hermione into Kabul because Amdaal saw an opportunity.

Or had been waiting for a convenient enough one.

 _"You know where she is_ ," he repeats incredulously.

"I need to hang up. I've got to call Coulson."

"What? No. No, no, no, no, no. You've got connections in the Middle East, and I need someone who's not going to play by the rules to get her out of there. Coulson has to answer to Fury who won't sanction an extraction mission—"

"Trust me." She disconnects and phones Coulson and such a good, reliable man, he answers promptly with a, _"What do you need?"_

There's a warm sensation in her chest she can't help but feel whenever they speak. It's a dangerous kind of sentiment she allows herself to house. It could be a little crush as she finds his conviction of her redemption from her KGB sins incredibly flattering. It's hard for Hermione not to bat her eyelashes and grin at Coulson whenever he talks to her as if she's _the best_ thing that's happened to S.H.I.E.L.D., and she knows Natalia holds the same _near-_ professional respect for him. They've talked about him, she and her.

 _"I'd suck him off if he'd let me," slurred Natalia after too many vodka martini's during last year's New Year's Eve party at the Triskelion._

Coulson. He's the one who stitched—as best as he could—Hermione's and Natalia's torn alliance, though their with Natalia never healed completely. There's still a rift, and Hermione's responsible. There's still a sting. On top of that, she keeps Natalia at arm's length out of self-preservation. It's only a matter of time when Hermione will be the one to betray her. Again. The first time with handing over all the names of the girls in the Red Rom. The second time will be when HYDRA unveils herself, and Hermione can't help but think she'll be the one having to put Natalia down. The woman will take it personal because of course she would because Hermione would if the roles were reversed. In a way, they had been.

So why? So why go through the trouble of saving her when she'll just have to kill her later?

Hermione tells herself she's going to do all what's necessary because she has to. Because she has to clean this mess she created, and it's unfair Natalia and HYDRA are at risk when this battle isn't theirs. She tells herself HYDRA needs Natalia still as a pawn, powerful and deadly as she is, and would be a waste to leave her for dead.

Reason after reason she concocts because she's going to have a hell of time convincing Pierce why she involved herself in the annihilation of Cruz-Gesenko and to rescue the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who betrayed her.

Especially.

 _Especially…_ if this is all a trap. For all Hermione knows, Natalia is dead. Cruz-Gesenko is dead, and this is all a trick to lure her into the lion's den, so she can die, too.

Hermione catches her reflection in the rear view mirror.

 _So she can die, too_.

This is what it's all about, isn't it?

" _Agent?"_

"I'm here. I'm just…thinking."

" _What do you need?"_ repeats Coulson.

A hell of a plan but a ride'll do. "I need to get to the Iran Afghanistan border. How fast can you get me there?"

 _"It'd be faster if you were already on the ship. Are you at the Triskelion now?"_

"I'm just pulling up." She slows at the security booth and rolls down her window, showing the guard her badge. "Can you get me a bus going?"

 _"The Alpha team is heading out in 0200 for a routine flyover the area. I can probably sanction you a ride."_

"Alpha doesn't do routine flyovers, Coulson," she murmurs.

" _Just don't go snooping around, all right? There's classified material on board."_

"Noted and uninterested. Get me that green light. Until then, I need to talk to Pierce."

" _I couldn't have heard you correctly."_

"Trust me."

 _"You can't go to the CEO and—do what exactly? Agent, you haven't even met the man…"_

"Everything's going to be fine. I promise." Likely a lie. Hermione's not even sure she'll make it out of Afghanistan alive once she hits it. The inevitable confrontation with Natalia post Project Insight may not even happen. Hermione's not being lured to Kabul for tea and biscuits, is she?

"Hey, I need a backpack with all the goodies," she tells Coulson.

She hears him sigh. _"Are you sure you're up for this? You haven't been on a combative op in over two years. Barton's on holiday, but he wants to come in on this. I'm seriously considering sending him with you."_

"I've got this." Hermione parks her car, exhaling softly. "And I need to do this alone. Coulson, this…is my fault. It's Amdaal. He's doing this. I'm sorry. I have to go now."

She disconnects the call before he can get a word in. Climbing out of the car, she calls a number she's not even supposed to have.

" _Hello?"_ Pierce greets suspiciously.

"Mr. Pierce." Hermione takes the elevator the atrium. "This is Agent Abegglen. We met some years ago. Perhaps you remember?"

There's a pause on the other end. _"Milas? How did you get this number?"_

"I need to speak with you. It's urgent."

 _"Have you been compromised?"_ He sounds panicked.

"Not in the way you think. I need to speak with you. You're still in your office, right?"

 _"Milas,"_ he begins, his tone a chiding one. Like he's talking to a rebellious teenager. _"This is highly unorthodox and completely against protocol. I'm a busy man. If you have troubles, and you're not compromised, I believe you're supposed to contact Sitwell. He's not your S.O. anymore, but he takes care of these situations—"_

"This concerns the possibility of Cruz-Gesenko not being dead, sir."

He pauses. "You have my attention."

It's then he complies to her request for a meeting and gives her a temporary pass code to log into the elevator systems so she has access to his private floor. She knocks on his office door before entering and sees both Pierce and Obadiah Stane get up from his desk and shake hands.

"Sorry to cut this short," says Pierce warmly, smiling at Hermione and beckoning her to come further into the office. As if he's tickled pink to see her, and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s not at the cusp of exposure. "An unexpected situation has come up that requires my attention, but I do think you remember _Melissa Abernathy_ aka Agent Abegglen."

Stane shakes her hand, grinning. He's the one truly tickled pink to see her. "You did an excellent job with Tony. He didn't suspect a thing."

"And neither did Fury, most importantly," remarks Pierce. "Thinks you really did botch it up on accident when the truth is, we don't exactly want an undercover operative in the company, do we?"

"Let's give Mr. Stane his credit, Mr. Pierce. He knew if I slept with Mr. Stark, he'd never pick me because he got what he wanted right away. He belayed the information to me, and it worked. The best part about this is that, indeed, Fury has no idea I was sent in on the operation to purposefully fail. He doesn't need to know that, you, Mr. Stane, are selling Stark weapons under the table on behalf of funding S.H.I.E.L.D. _aka_ HYDRA" She winks. "And your own personal accounts."

Stane still has her hand and then brings the back of it to his lips. "I miss Melissa's English accent, Agent Abegglen. It suited her. Maybe it will suit you, too."

Hermione retreats her hand to straighten his tie and the lapels of his suit. She channels her native Surrey accent she used as Melissa and relays, "I got word from Fury he's secured a spook in accounting. He's taken Pott's old job. I trust you make sure he finds nothing."

"I adore you," Stane says and then turns to Pierce. "I adore her. Give her a raise."

"The private staircase, Obi." Pierce points to the opposite corner, an impatient twist to his lips.

"I get it. I'm on my way." He downs the last of his drink left on Pierce's desk and waves them a wide salute and then darts to Pierce's private stairwell.

Once he disappears behind the door, Pierce shuffles over to his private bar and pours himself a brandy. "Would you like a drink?"

"What do you know about my eighteen month stay in the Middle East?" she starts.

Pierce doesn't respond right away. He's unnervingly silent for ten seconds or so before unapologetically confessing, "I almost don't anything about you, Agent Abegglen. I didn't even know it was _you_ on the Stark job until an hour ago. All I know about you is that you're a five million dollar malfunction."

He looks at her over his shoulder then shrugs it, turning and placing a full glass of brandy in front of her. He sips at his own and continues, "Didn't know that, did you? The modified formula we injected you with was expensive. I'm sure Strucker didn't tell you that. Wanted to spare you the shame. It's embarrassing enough we have you manacled and muzzled like a dog. It's a waste."

Hermione lets out a long, careful breath. He wants to go _there?_ Fine. "With all do respect, sir, the bracelet was and is not necessary. I could be everything you wanted and wished for if only by your say. I can be more than just an interrogator. I'm as powerful as Rogers and Schmidt. Plus, with my other abilities beyond reading minds—"

"Tell me about your eighteen months in the Middle East." There's an open file on his desk. He licks the tip of his pointer finger and turns a page.

Her mouth is open but nothing's coming out, the subject change and _utter disinterest_ of her valid point arriving so fast, she's whiplashed.

He looks up at her expectantly. "Unless it's not really that important, and you just knew exactly what to say to get a one-on-one me with to discuss the removal of the bracelet."

"Of course not, sir," she manages. She clears her throat. "Um…the KGB sent me to the Middle East after 9/11. I made enemies. This one in particular. The Amdaal family. I made the mistake of not killing the son. I thought bankrupting him, hurting him badly, and killing his family would be enough in neutralize him. But he must've had connections because he's found me _months ago_ and has been harassing me ever since.

"My demographics are under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protective wall, and I'm not Romanoff. I'm not out and about making a name for myself and becoming popular with vomitus swill of the international criminal underworld. I'm almost as invisible as I've always been. The way he found me was because we had a stranger in our house. It didn't take me long to smoke the spy out and privately eliminate her. For a while, the harassment stopped, but now I know she wasn't working alone, and I haven't found out who the second spy is—"

Pierce holds up a hand and sits down in his chair. "This is something you need to report to Garcia, and I fail to see how this has anything to do with Cruz—"

"I know Fury sent Romanoff to grab him and get him to safety and so does Amdaal. He told me not an hour ago he's got her. If he's got her, then there's a chance Cruz-Gesenko is alive."

Pierce frowns at her and then takes out his cellphone. He dials a number and then puts it to his ear. "Yes, can you give me an update on Cruz-Gesenko." Pause. "I see. Yes, do that."

He hangs up and stares at Hermione. "We do not have a confirmation on his death, nor do we have word on Romanoff. They've gone missing, apparently, and the asset has been asked to return to Iran. Our HYDRA operatives believe SAVAK might be involved, and if that's the case…"

Pierce downs half of his brandy in one go.

"I don't think it is."

He slams down his glass. "An email about this would've been nice. Why are you here, Agent?"

"I'm concerned that traitor Cruz-Gesenko is alive. Are you aware he was supposed to meet Fury in Odessa. He wasn't just being taken to a safehouse. He was going to out us. It was his leverage to walk free."

"Hm." Pierce brings the glass to his lips again to drain the rest.

"Sir?" She expected him to be more concerned.

"You're not going."

"Pardon?"

"I'm grateful for the information you've provided. Amdaal, you said? Afghanistan, then. I'll have the asset start heading in that direction because I'm sure you're concerned with the risk of Cruz-Gesenko living through all this." He points at her. "He's a dead man walking if he isn't eliminated already, but I know what this is really about. Romanoff is special to you. She's your...pet or something. You want me to okay an off-the-books op for you."

"Do you not hold a fondness for Fury at all?"

"Mind yourself, Agent," he chastises. "Don't think for one second what little _dalliance_ you have with that Soviet slut is anything like I have with the director. Fury would never betray me as the man he believes me to be. If Amdaal has her, let the bastard kill her. As for that second spy, we'll work on it."

"She is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and an unknowing asset to HYDRA," argues Hermione. "She is a perfect puppet and one of my ins on knowing what's going on in Fury's inner circle. You had _no idea_ until I told you Cruz-Gesenko was going to meet with Fury."

"But it wasn't Romanoff who told you."

"It was Barton," Hermione reveals. "Who told me _because_ of Romanoff. If she dies, he's not going to tell me anything ever again. He doesn't trust me, and the sacrifice in blowing the Stark job, making myself look incompetent for the sake of protecting Stane, cost me a fulltime gig in joining Fury's team. That leaves me Coulson and Hill. The former is friendly but good at keeping secrets and the second distrusts me more than Barton does."

"These are small potatoes. I have more to worry about than the cool kids letting you eat lunch with them, and at this point, I'm not too concerned with Fury's objectives."

"At this point, yes, but he's director, and he'll have plans and proposals you'll want to hear about first before the World Council hears about it. I go and save Romanoff, there's my in with Barton and Fury, right there. I get those two, Hill and Coulson will follow their lead. I may still not get to eat with _the cool kids, sir,_ but I'll be—"

"It's a no, Agent."

She supposed she expected as much.

Hermione clenches and unclenches her hands, a pleading expression on her face, though she chooses not to continue defending her stance. He's unmovable. Natalia isn't worth much to him in the long run because he underestimates her value to Fury. He believes she wants to rescue her for selfish reasons only. He's not entirely wrong, but fuck him, she wants him to believe she's got HYDRA's best interest in keeping Natalia alive because it is a hell of reason. Hermione does need her for such superficial purposes.

The power on her bracelet is still down from when she showed Brock that trick after sex. She touches her pointer finger to the glass and stares at Pierce pointedly. The contents of the glass slightly expand and solidify, crackling and transforming into a solid chunk. Soon enough, the glass shatters, and Pierce doesn't even flinch. Like he anticipated from the moment she called him that she'd lose her cool.

He lifts a finger, his lips quirked. "I have something to show you, and I'm glad I have here it with me. A nice present for you. Just in time for Christmas."

A box—almost like a cheap jewelry box—is taken out of his top drawer. The lid is removed, and he plucks a one-inch silver square device from the velvet layer. On the square device is a circular indent of a button. Without any preamble, he presses it, and an white, hot electric shock pulses up her arm. She lets out a pained and startled yelp, nearly falling to the floor.

The shock is short-lived. A brief flare, but her arm tingles uncomfortably as does the entire upper left half of her body. Even the right side of her face feels off. She touches her cheek and finds it numb. A dull throb in her head begins to beat a rhythm.

"Good. It works."

She goes to speak and finds her that the left side of tongue is numb, as well, and her throat feels odd. Swollen and stuffed inside her neck.

Her bracelet. It's rigged. And she hates how surprised she is.

"You know." He gets up from his chair and circles the desk to stand next to her. "I had wondered when you'd start sassing your uppers. I mean it's one thing to give Sitwell a hard time. That I can let pass. But me? And over Romanoff?" He clicks his tongue. "Do you think she'd care about you at all if she knew who and what you really are? She would put a bullet between your eyes in a heartbeat, Abegglen."

He presses the button again, and her legs give it out. The sharp pricks travel both downwards and upwards, and her knees catch her fall. She puts her hands to the ground to keep from lying flat. She will not go down all the way. She refuses. Her training instilled in her to never be weak. To never let your enemies and even your allies know how badly they can damage.

Hermione knows she deserves this punishment, and if she could speak, she would tell Pierce as much. She would tell him she's sorry. She really is. But…

…not that sorry. Soon he'll understand. She make him sure of it.

She powers down the bracelet completely on her bracelet and knocks the remote out of his hand and hastily plasters her hand to the side of his face. A rush of power, almost tangy and delicious-like, ravage her veins. Tears almost spring forth. The sensation is as good as a perfect orgasm after a dry spell.

She stands and channels that pure energy into her hand, her fingers and pushes it into Pierce's mind. The last time she did this, she spoke her will, but her voice box isn't quite ready.

Pierce's blue eyes film over for a moment, and those tears do spill from her own. She's not a crier. She's not emotional. Very few things touch her heart. Natalia betraying her was one of them. And _this_. Guilt. Shame. Those quickly replace the rush of her powers being back in full swing. This is treason of the highest form, but she can fix it. She can kill Cruz-Gesenko and still save Natalia.

Hermione will have her close ally and her in with Fury. Pierce won't thank her one day because it was his idea to begin with, wasn't it? All she did was come in and express concern that HYDRA could be compromised due to her a botched mission three years prior.

When the damage is near finished, she coaxes him back to his chair and goes to fetch his shocker remote, fighting the temptation to break it. The lethal little square goes back in its box, neatly tucked into the drawer. With a wave of her hands, she repairs the drinking glass and slips the solid chunk of brandy in place, liquifying it.

Lastly, the bracelet. She powers it up all the way.

For now.

Ten minutes go by before she's able to speak. In that time, she works on Pierce's mind, piecing and coaxing bits together to form her will but being cautious as to not delve too deep below the surface. Mind her own business while in there. She peeped where needed and nowhere else. All the while, she ponders her abilities.

It's so curious, her powers. And this, obviously, is not the first time she's contemplated them, and still, she's stumped. There's no…pattern to them. No rhyme or reason. There are individuals in the world who are different but not _like_ her. For instance, those locked away in The Fridge. Each of their peculiarities, are limited to one or two things. Unless, they were tampered with for scientific purposes which gave them maybe one more ability.

Her own abilities. They're diverse. Ranging from bringing a dead flower back to life to controlling another human being. What logic is there behind that? All of those freaks in that prison bloomed a strange but scientifically explainable phenomenon.

And then here _she_ is.

Hermione could be comforted by the fact that she's not alone. 54 was like her, and when Hermione reflects on her from time to time, she wonders what became of her. If anything did. Sometimes she wonders if Baron got _rid_ of her even though he said he didn't when she asked later. He kept his answer vague, and it was always the same thing.

" _I sent her away."_

Her vocal cords lax and she gently and caressingly retracts from Pierce's mind, and her exit is so discreet, he immediately begins speaking mid-sentence. A swell of pride in herself erupts. She wants to keep doing this. She wants to be what she was supposed to be all along. Unstoppable. She doesn't have to be the five million dollar malfunction.

Bitterness and reality overcome, and she crash-lands from her high. Her future at the moment is rather bleak. Better yet, uncertain. Her phone buzzes, and she checks it. The coordinates of Amdaal's compound greet her.

"…idea. Risky, yes, but the asset has lost sight of the target. It would be perfect for you to ensure Cruz-Gesenko is at this compound and take care of him. If Romanoff happens to be there. Sure, get her out of there. Why not? It'd make Fury pleased as punch. "Fury's a hard one to get a read on sometimes and I get why you believe we need her around still. Just make sure she doesn't find out what your real mission is. Bring her back, kiddo. If you think you got it in you." He grins jovially. "It'll be off-books, though. Not formally sanctioned. You won't get any help. When you walk out that door, you'll be on your own."

"I'll manage, sir, thank you."

Pierce purses his lips and holds up before she gets far. "Secure Romanoff. Send a message when you have her. If the target isn't around, you're mission isn't over. Eliminate him. By any means necessary."

She nods and turns around to leave, her heart beating fast. When she reaches the door, hand on the knob, it's not surprising she jumps a little when he call after her.

"But you keep that bracelet on, Agent."

The action she couldn't make herself _make him_ do while inside his head. Make him change her mind about the bracelet. Whether she couldn't do it out of fear and respect, or it was too drastic of a paradigm shift for her to dare tamper with, she's not sure.

The bracelet has never felt so tight.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Coulson keeps his promise on that backpack full of goodies. When he hands it to her with interesting smile of his, standing a few feet from the ramp of the quinjet **,** he tells her to be safe and to stay the hell of the grid for as long as possible.

"Fury will have a coronary when finds out you went above him to Pierce."

Hermione unzips the backpack, rifling through all the tools and gadgets she may need. "I'm saving his prize. He'll only be upset for a second."

"I know I've said this, but I'm glad you and Romanoff mended things. You two will make a hell of team someday."

"I don't think we'll ever be what we were, and I think everyone knows that. We'll never be assigned as a duo."

"You're risking your life to save hers. You're rescuing her. You two should be right as rain—"

"It's more complicated than that, sir."

"Having your best friend betray you will be that way, but you've forgiven her. For the most part."

Zipping up the bag, she slings the pack over her shoulder. "Would you have? How would you feel if the person…or people you trusted the most in the entire world weren't who you thought they were? Would you be able to forgive them completely?"

Coulson removes his sunglasses, his expression worried. "Romanoff did what she did to get you of the KGB's clutches. They were using you. They didn't care about you. Maybe it all could've gone down differently, but sometimes we have to make the best of situations. She had to cough up a comrade to gain our trust, and she chose you because she wanted you around and knew you'd be smart enough to strike a deal."

The quinjet roars to life and the Alpha team begins to board behind them. "Let's hope for my sake, she doesn't ever find out what that entailed. Doesn't matter she turned me in, she won't forgive me if she finds out."

"She won't."

"She's Black Widow, Coulson. Sooner or later, she's going to find out, and then what?"

"She might understand. It was incarceration for the rest of your life or them, and you owed them nothing. _Nothing_ , do you hear me?"

"It's understandable why people murder their idiot neighbors, but they're still going to prison."

"This is going to fix things. You'll see," says Coulson.

Hermione's tempted to tell him this gig won't fix the damage he's hoping for, and she can't even imagine an outcome where she'll see him again. This isn't a rescue mission. It's pretty much an exchange unless she figure something else out which she's got to. She can't let Cruz-Vesenko walk freely when so much is at stake. He could expose HYDRA and as badly as she wants to keep Natalia top priority, she can't. This is much bigger than saving her friend.

If Amdaal does, indeed, have Natalia and Cruz-Vesenko, he has no idea the landmine he's resting on.

"You look nervous," supplies Coulson.

"I haven't done combative field work in a while." She swallows. "After all this is over, why don't you take me to dinner, huh?"

A faint, rose color blossoms on his cheeks. "I'll say it again. I'm too old for you, Agent. Plus, I'm afraid Rumlow might break my spine. I saw him do it once to somebody. No, thank you."

She frowns at him. "I—"

"Everybody knows."

"Sitwell?"

He almost looks perplexed. "Romanoff."

How does that bitch know? Arms fold, she cants her hips and says, "When I get back, we're going to have a conversation. The _three_ of us. Over dinner."

"You're going to miss your flight—"

"I have yet to have a burger, you know."

Coulson opens and closes his mouth like a fish. He then stands tall and straightens his tie. "Over dinner," he agrees. "I pick. Get going." He then bobs his head slowly up and down, taking her in. "And I took the liberty of getting you a suit. A box above the light in the bathroom. One of Natasha's. It should do."

Hermione nods and salutes him a wave then makes a b-line for the ramp which closes shut immediately once she's boarded. She jogs up the metal stairs into the main part of the quinjet and enters the bathroom where she shoves the light fixture up and removes the box. Inside is Natalia's skintight Kevlar-lined bodysuit, and Hermione wonders how her own extra four inches and completely different body shape will fair in it. The boots, as well, are a half-size too small. Hermione expects blisters by Kabul.

Hermione's not a combative field agent anymore. S.H.I.E.L.D. retired her and HYDRA went along with it for the time being. Put her behind a desk and a table and a one-way mirror. She doesn't get her own goody bag or her own fitted suit. She gets blazers and blouses and pinstriped trousers. If she has to accompany the Beta team, all she gets is a thigh-holster.

Checking her reflection in the mirror, she turns on the faucet and dampens her shoulder-length curls, securing them in a braided knot at the base of her skull. Her phone buzzes on the toilet. A message from Pierce. Coordinates. She opens her pack and pulls out a S.H.I.E.L.D. emblemed notebook, booting it up and searching the coordinates which leads to a safehouse in Herat.

 _Bang, bang, bang!_

"In a minute," she says to the person on the other side of the door, fishing out a military-grade watch and latching it onto the same wrist as her bracelet and set's it to how much time she's got left before she's got to be on Amdaal's doorstep.

"Dinner's in twenty. Lights out at 2300," says Hamill through the barrier.

"Thanks." She steps up on the toilet and puts the box back in place as well as the light fixture. When she exits the bathroom, Hamill's going down the narrow hallway but then whirls back around.

"Hey, Donoghue's leaving the team. He got a job with the Secret Service."

"Good for him."

"Which means I got a spot open." Hamill's thumbs hook onto his suspenders. "I've been looking at your boy."

She makes a face and rolls her eyes. "Seriously? Does _everyone_ know?"

His laugh is guttural and unapologetic.

Eleven o'clock finds her and the team fast. There are compact, capsule-like bunks in the quinjet and since half the team is not on there, she gets one. She tries to get a few winks in, but her mind's running a marathon, and she can hear the reaper laughing. She tries to distract herself by _sexting_ Brock. A term she heard from one of the rookie techs back on the Lemurian a few months ago. He thinks she's at the Hartsfield–Jackson waiting for her midnight flight to London.

Aside from the tight sleeping quarters, traveling by quinjets is a favorite of Hermione's. It's one o'clock in the afternoon when she arrives a couple of hours outside of Zabol via chute. It's important to not draw attention, so she's in the middle of nowhere and has to trek across the desert. The chilled, strong wind and warm sun beat down on her as she tries to stay off road and out of sight.

Hermione keenly watches a Humvee a quarter of a mile away from her as the wheels kicking up dirt. The vehicle carves its own pathway on bumpy terrain. The driver must spot her, and the car jerks abruptly and darts towards her. There are no plates on the Humvee and is early 90's, U.S. military grade.

Stolen.

Her assumption is verified when the the car stops and five natives-all men-spill out of the car to openly leer and point their firearms at her. She guesses there's no way in talking herself out of this one, given she's quite literally dressed as a spy in Natalia's garb.

These men aren't soldiers, though, and if she has to guess, she's going with common smugglers. Still, she hears their conflicted thoughts of loathing and lust directed at her. One wants to kill her outright. Another wants to rape and then kill her. One wants to ask what the hell she's doing out here before raping and killing her. The fourth man wants strip naked, roll her up in a tarp and sell her.

Well...she can't have that.

She grimaces up at the sun. God, it's bright. Her face is probably all sunburned and freckly. And her nails. She frowns at them, buffing her filthy digits over her sternum.

Hm. But she _will_ have their car.

* * *

Bringing the Humvee to a stop a few miles from the border, Hermione gets out of the car and touches her wrist because good God. It's naked save for the watch. In the mini-mass grave she produced for those four smugglers dwells her bracelet. Mangled and buried three feet deep in the desert, the tracker fried because she fried it because for _this_...she needs to be free. She has to be free. If she wants to come out of this more or less unscathed, there can't be any hindrance. This isn't an op for HYDRA in all honestly. It's a mission for herself.

 _Ping!_

Instinctively, she drops to the ground at the sound of gunfire, the window of the backdoor shattering. Shards of glass fall onto her back, and a white hot sting blooms on her ear. She touches it and sees blood on her fingers. Movement in her peripheral refocuses her attention, and she sees _the Solider_ stalking towards her, mask and all, HK 416 trained on her.

 _Shit! Shit! Shit!_

"Stay down," he orders in Persian.

"At ease, Soldier," she replies in Russian, lifting her arms.

"Stay down until I say," he hisses, this time in Russian, as well.

When his boots are centimeters from her forehead, he orders her to slowly get to her knees.

"Remove everything you got," he says. "Backpack first."

She unbuckles the two clips above and below her breasts and slips off the straps, dropping it between them.

"Guns and knives."

"My pistol's in the pack." She unzips the bag with one hand as the other creeps to her boot. He lowers the firearm and backhands her with his metal appendage. The blow knocks her to the side, and pain flares up the left side of her face. She spits onto the dirt, her slobber bloody. She licks her teeth, grateful none are loose or broken.

The Soldier is on her before she can even gather her bearings. Knee digging into her thigh, painfully, and her throat in a chokehold, his freehand divests her ankle of her Halo-Tech knife. He examines the knife and then flicks the blade erect.

"This tells me you're FIS," he accuses.

Wriggling her free leg up, she knees him between the legs which makes him recoil enough to loosen his grip on her throat and move his knee from her thigh. She rolls out from under him and stands, but he's quick to recover. He moves for his HK 416, so she makes a jump at him, using his own leg as kickoff point for her to reach high enough in wrapping her legs shoulders and twisting her body towards the ground so he'll follow suit. She flips and lands in a slippery but graceful-enough, wide plie as he timbers.

From the ground, he glares at her turned out feet and then tilts his head up at her.. "KGB."

Lightning fast, he grabs the fallen knife and slashes the back of her calve, and then he's on his feet in full attack mode. With perfect and precise movement. Hermione's beginning to think this man is a terrible, terrible problem to be running into. How is that he happens to be _here_? Yes, she gets him being in Iran on the way to Afghanistan but in the same place she is? It's more suspicious than ironically inconvenient.

She can't help but think Pierce might be behind it.

The blade comes in contact with her torso, ripping a tear in her suit. She retracts into a backhand spring, kicking the knife out of his grasp and getting further away from him.

"Jesus Christ, will you stop?" she barks in English. "I got coordinates that could possibly lead you to Cruz-Gesenko. That's why you're still hanging out here next to the border, right? You're waiting on word when you can cross?"

He stares vacantly at her. "Where do they lead, the coordinates?"

"Kabul. Do you want to see them?"

He dips his chin.

"All right, I'm going to get my phone and computer out of my pack. I promise I will _not_ pull out anything else." She scoots to her pack and crouches, eyes trained on each other as she extracts her cellphone and brings up the message from Amdaal before tossing the device to him. She then goes for the the laptop and punches in the coordinates, the screen bringing up a shoddy, grainy satellite image of a heavily secured piece of property. She sets the computer on the hood of the Humvee and gets out her binoculars.

"You're sure my target is there?"

"Sure enough," she replies. "I don't want to fight you. I really just need to get across the border, so if you don't mind," she shakes the binoculars at him pointedly, "I'm going to stand watch and rest up for a little while."

As in heal. Her jaw's still aches, and the slice on her leg smarts as does her ear. She retrieves the first aid kit tucked away in the pack. As she cleans up her wound, she glances over at the stoic Soldier who frowns at her cellphone in his metal hand, crushing it with a careless squeeze.

How nice.

It's going to be a long night.

To be Continued...


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: This update was initially supposed to be one chapter, but I felt like it was too long. I split it into two parts and gave you both to make up for my delay on posting them. I hope you like them. Please enjoy. On a side note, I once again will say that I'm trying to keep this close to the MCU movies (2008-2016), but there are a few minor things that are different such as Natasha's age. My fic will likely not include any spoilers and material post Civil War.**

 **I updated the warnings. Feel free to read through them back on Chapter 1.**

 **Thank you, readers and reviewers. Please enjoy Chapters 19 and 20! Let me know what you think.**

* * *

 **Chapter 19: One Time in Kabul**

 **Iranian Desert,**

 **Two hours north of Zabol**

Behzad's puff of cigarette smoke disappears in the desert wind. He takes another drag then flicks the fag to the ground and stomping it out. There's a shift in the air. They've finally come. Three cloaked figures drop from the sky, landing elegantly on the dusty earth. One of them is a woman, and Behzad removes the sneer from his face when seeing her face. His breath catches at her beauty. She's the first to shuffle towards him, a boldness in her step, greeting him with a dip of her chin and covering all but her eyes with a makeshift hijab made from black lace.

At least she's respectful.

"Show me the bodies," she demands in Persian, her accent of Eastern Europe, and Behzad internally questions how she got wind of the case. He could ask, but she is an Unspeakable, he knows she won't answer truthfully if at all when he's just a _lowly_ Auror calling in favors.

He gestures for her to follow and they walk several feet until they reach the shallow grave belonging to four unidentified men. And that's what they are. Just men. Magicless men.

"The _Avada_ was not used," she surmises, pulling out her wand from her cloak, "on any of them. Extraordinary. You still stand by your assumption in cause of death."

"I was unable to determine _any_ _single_ spell," Behzad reveals. "The closest I could trace it was to a Cruciatus and oddly enough, Legilimency This is crude magic but far from elementary. The scale of power is unlike anything I've ever encountered. So large, it could not help but be brought to my ministry's attention." He drops his voice. "I'm not even sure a wand was used."

"Legilimens," the woman whispers, dark eyes transfixed on the bodies.

"I've been in contact with other ministries. There were similar episodes, such as these men here, a few years ago. Afghanistan and Pakistan, mostly. A case in Kuwait, as well." Behzad pulls out the broken trinket he found in the shallow grave with the men. "Another thing. I found this. I doubt it'll give us much more information. I can't tell if it's a calling card or was mistakenly left behind by the murderer."

The woman takes the bracelet from, bringing the broke clasp closer to her gaze. Her thumbs and fingers skim over the metal.

"The alloy is surprisingly substantial. To the untrained eye, it seems to be a cheap trinket." With all the strength in her fingers, she snaps the band and reveals thin, shoddy wiring. Her fingernails pick at one of the strings.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Apologies. My knowledge of nonmagical technology is dated." She looks over her shoulder at the two men who she came with and says, "Poleski, what can you tell me about this?" though he doesn't understand.

Behzad casts a Translation Charm, watching the man take the bracelet, bringing it close to his bespectacled eyes.

"Interesting."

"What?" asks the woman

"Fine craftsmanship. Details are incredibly precise. For what, remains to be seen. I'd have to take it back to the lab to find out more, but…" He arches his brows. "I'm fairly certain this is government tech. Intelligence grade." He frowns. "If this belongs to our murderer, why would he have it?"

"She."

"Pardon?"

"She," repeats the woman, eye glittering in the glow of her wand as she crouches down and waves at the tire tracks of a vehicle. She flicks her wand and the gusty trail glides over the tracks, disappearing into the east. "Woman's intuition."

"Not this nonsense again, Soo-jin," says the second man, coming up beside Poleski and removing his glasses, cleaning them with the material of his cloak. He gestures with his chin at the ignited pathway. "I wonder where it leads."

"To the murderer, I gather, Mikhail," quips Poleski.

"I meant," he slips on his glasses, "where does it end? If _she_ hopped the border, we have to contact the Afghani ministry."

The woman disappears with a _pop_ and then reappears several moments later. "The spell stretched far cross the border. She's likely hundreds of miles away by now." Her eyes narrow at the east. "Where is the suspect going?"

The four of them sense a shift in the air and turn to where the three landed. Two cloaked figures, a man and a woman, hit the ground. Behzad grimaces but is in higher spirits, nonetheless. He just wishes the Brits and French would've dropped in first instead of the Russians.

"Soo-jin," calls Unspeakable Nott from his land spot, "always a pleasure. Poleski. Jankiv. Behzad." He rushes past the three Russians to shake Behzad's hand. "Are there anymore coming?"

"I alerted my neighboring ministries _and_ America. I got no response, but I'm hopeful. This is not the first time we've encountered a situation like this. For an eighteen-month streak, our intelligence community were beside themselves with frustration trying to track down the suspect. Our liaison played hot potato on who the case really belonged to because the bodies were victims of magic and nonmagical chaos.

"At first, we considered we were dealing with a psychologically unhinged Obscura. Given the delicate government systems here and aggressively conservative traditions in the nonmagical community, the Middle East produces quite a few. Obscuras are typically formed by—"

"Children," interjects Soo-jin. "And this is _no_ child."

Nott arches his brows, smirking. "Are you in on something we ought to know about, Soo-jin?"

"I became an Unspeakable after these events here in the Middle East," reveals Soo-jin, "but I heard about them and call me intrigued. I started searching elsewhere for similar cases around the world. It hasn't just happened here. Between 1998 and 2001, multiple cases of magic-tainted bodies surfaced for no rhyme or reason. Almost all the cases have been brushed under the rug and dubbed hate-crimes, but most of these victims aren't your every-day nonmagicals. They're influential people. Powerful and political and important to their governments."

"You're implying…" Nott hesitates, his eyes wide.

"Nonmagical intelligence has gotten their hands on some of us for exploitation purposes."

"That's absurd," remarks the woman who came with Unspeakable Nott. Her accent is French and like Soo-jin, her face his half-covered with a makeshift hijab made of fine silk, though her eyes are a deep, mesmerizing blue. Those eyes look at the four dead men in pity. "But even if it's possible, why these men? They are nobody."

"They had something she needed. I'm guessing a vehicle," remarks Soo-jin.

"Why not just take it and leave them alive?" she counters.

Soo-jin opens her mouth and then hastily snaps it shut, and Nott catches her. He narrows his eyes and imagines she knows more than she's willing to tell. But isn't that how it's always been with Soo-jin? She'll give a good show by displaying her intelligence but only up to a point. Sometimes knowing too much can be incriminating.

Whether she was going to say anymore or not, Nott must chime in his own two knuts for why the suspect killed the men. "Dead men tell no tales."

"There are a dozen spells to keep someone from revealing anything," pitches Poleski. "The suspect goes for a mashed-up Unforgiveable that is not typically used to kill but to inflict an ungodly kind of pain. I see no reason why they had to be tortured."

"I don't believe they were," says Behzad. "They likely felt pain akin to a _Crucio_ , but it was short-lived. The suspect penetrated their minds, or more accurately, the anatomy of their brain and burst the cells and capillaries. They experienced hundreds of mini strokes and aneurysms in the space of a minute but likely died by second three."

From the corner of his eye, Nott sees Soo-jin touch her forehead, her eyes haunted.

* * *

 **Afghanistan**

The border is two hours behind them, and they haven't spoken a word to each other since. Hermione's got the driver's side window down, the cool air keeping her alert and dirty as hell. The road beneath the tires is unpaved and parched, and each dip sends up a bloom of dust.

It's not like she wants to be pretty for her arrival in and certainly not for the present company. But if Hermione had more time, she'd stop at the safehouse in Herat and clean up, but she's got eight hours left to reach the compound. It'll take about that long of straight driving to just get there. The stop in Herat will be brief.

One hand on the wheel, Hermione delves her hand into the backpack perched between them and pulls out a bag of beef jerky, tearing the plastic open with her teeth and shoving a few strips into her mouth.

The Soldier's rests his gaze on her.

Or rather the bag of jerky.

Mid-chew, Hermione glances over at him, contemplating the last time he ate. She eyes his pants with the flattened pouches and closed zippers and tries to picture his handlers stuffing them full of snacks and decides they don't. The man's clearly not a starving, rotted corpse, and she assumes he gets fed and fluids after completed missions pre cryo-freeze.

His mission is far from over, and he's got to be famished. His metabolism has got to be as fast if not faster than hers given his male biology.

"Here." She offers the bag to him. "Eat."

He stares blankly at her face and then at the bag, his metal hand creeping towards the opening and then hastily snatching _one_ and shoving it into his mouth. She snorts and puts the bag down close to him. The trigger-happy bastard is going to show modesty, is he?

"I can't have you passing out." She extracts the canteen from her pack and hears the water slosh against the empty spaces inside, so she goes for the spare water bottle and sets it beside his hip.

He plows into the jerky ravenously, and she dulls her hunger pangs with a chocolate covered granola bar. The Soldier sniffs.

"Is that…chocolate?"

She sighs and gets another one out and hands it to him. He tears open the wrapper and chomps down before whispering a baffled, "Oh, my God."

"Do they feed you? Your handlers."

He's quiet, and she looks over at him. He's staring at the window, his mouth working the cheap, sugar-infested snack.

"I don't know," he says finally.

On a logical level, she knows they do but not often, she guesses, and he's probably locked up in cryo-freeze long enough to not lose any muscle-mass or be clinically malnourished.

It's not right they don't take care of him in the way he deserves. He's served HYDRA well these past sixty years for Christ's sake.

She clenches her fingers around the steering wheel, hating how she feels bad for him enough to consider putting him out of his goddamned misery. If she didn't need his help, she'd pull the car over and shoot him point blank in his pretty face and be done with it.

She'd let him finish the bar first. She's not that barbaric.

He finishes the granola bar and the bag of jerky and then downs the bottle of water. In Hermione's peripheral, she studies the way he licks his wet lips afterwards and how they have a natural sort of pout about them. With each passing minute, the resolute hardness he's conditioned to project melts away. His blue eyes are even starting to glaze and pink. A full belly, no immediate threat in sight, and knowledge his target is far away takes its toll.

He's exhausted.

The Soldier fights his tiredness for the next hour and then his body and mind give away. His head drops, and he slumps against the door.

He's out for the count, even sleeping through the brief stop in Herat where she stocks up on food, water, gasoline cans, and clothing they may need. The time, quietness, and the lone dirt path ahead of her gives her the opportunity to hash out a plan for when she arrives at the compound, but the truth is, she has no fucking idea what she's walking into. For all she knows, the moment she steps a toe on Amdaal's property, a firing squad's there.

Seriously? Why wouldn't he kill her that soon? If he's smart, that's exactly what he'll do, and she needs to be prepared for that.

In a perfect world, it's possible Amdaal wants to make her suffer. If he so much as stalls for second in killing her, the more likely Natalia will make it out alive and Cruz-Gesenko won't.

When the Soldier wakes, it's dawn, and he violently twists about in his seatbelt, the Halo tech knife he stole from her in hand. He glowers at the nothingness that is the desert.

"Hey, now," she says to him. "It's okay. You're okay."

He stares in bewilderment, like he has no idea who she is, where they are, and how he got in the Humvee. She eases up on the gas. "Solider, tell me your mission."

He blinks at her. "You," he says, brow furrowed.

"Tell me your mission," she repeats.

"You're KGB."

" _No."_ She hits the steering wheel. "I'm HYDRA, you incompetent monkey."

The corner of his mouth _twitches_ and then he says, "I know."

Hermione lets up on the gas even more, gawking at him. Is he…playing with her?

"You ass." She shakes her head, flabbergasted. _Stunned._ He's been out of cryo-freeze for close to a week. The Winter Soldier doesn't jest or tease. He doesn't know how. James Buchanan Barnes probably does. She bites her lip. There's a way to fix this. To temporarily reset his conditioning. She saw it once after she invaded his mind several years ago. When she dove into his memories out of self-preservation and accidentally brought Barnes to the surface. He'd been dragged to The Chair and Ms. Bērziņš threw trigger words at him. What were they?

Hermione hadn't been paying much attention. She spoke to Baron for a while and then went for a smoke.

If only she could analyze her own memories the way she does to others.

Actually…she's never tried to.

"You need to use the bathroom?" she asks him.

A revelatory expression befalls his face. "Yes."

She pulls over, and he gets out of the Humvee and walks a few feet, turning to face her as he lowers his trousers and handles himself to urinate. He's not going to put his back to her like a gentleman, but Hermione pays him no mind. She's seen penises before. Even peeing ones. She rests her elbow on the steering wheel and pinches her temples using her middle finger and thumb. Filing through the memories around the time she left the Red Room, she focuses on when she officially met the Winter Soldier and fought with him. She fast-forwards to the second time they fought and to the events took place following.

Her breath catches because it's like she's there. Like _really there_ , it seems like. There's a cold, damp draft coming from the vent above her, and she smells Baron's expensive cologne. She's standing over the railing— listening to his reprimand—of the facility in Sokovia. Ms. Bērziņš is down below with a number of guards on standby. The Solider screams in The Chair. With Baron's speaking, the shocks coming from The Chair, and the Soldier's screams; Hermione barely makes out the woman's words.

Желание.

Ржавый.

Семнадцать.

Рассвет.

Печь.

Девять.

Добросердечный.

Возвращение на родину.

Один.

рузовой вагон

 _The Winter Soldier bristles and then relaxes. "Ready to comply," he says, his voice gravely and strained._

The slamming of the passenger door jolts her back to the present, and the Soldier straps himself in with the seatbelt.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"My head hurts. I'm fine." She takes a swig from her canteen and debating whether The Chair is necessary for the reset or if she just starts firing off the trigger words, he'll roll over and show his belly.

"I can drive."

A sharp, strangled laugh leaves her mouth as she fires up the car. "I don't think so."

"I'm a good driver."

"Oh, yeah? When's the last time you drove anything?" It was supposed to be a harmless jab, but from the stricken, faraway look on his face, he must be thinking too hard and too far back.

Several minutes go by, and she hopes he's moved on from the question, but he finally says, "It wasn't a car. I was on motorcycle. I usually don't drive. I don't need to. My target is never far from me."

She gears the car back on the dusty road. "Lucky you. Not all of us are so blessed."

He stares out the window, his face pensive and then he jerks his head in her direction. "He thought he knew me."

"Your...target?"

"He called me Sargent…" His lips mouth words, like he's testing what he thinks he remembers before he says anything.

"He meant soldier, I'm sure. Hey, are you hungry? There's Ritz and Oreos in the pack. Raided a safehouse—"

"Barnes," he interjects. "Sargent Barnes."

Hermione pointedly looks at the road, pursing her lips. "You know," she starts, nodding gently, "before we reach Kabul, I'm thinking we're going to change cars and ditch this one."

"That's smart," he alleges.

"I'd love to have another military vehicle, but it'll draw too much attention when we start hitting the towns."

"You being in the driver's side of anything will get you pulled over in this country. At some point, I will have to take over."

"At some point, we can't look like _us_ ," she counters. "I picked up a few garments at the safehouse in Herat."

"You stopped? We have a mission A timed one, according to you. We're already cutting pretty close."

He's right. Going eighty to ninety miles per hour has set them for arriving to Amdaal's property maybe thirty minutes before Hermione's forty-eight hours are up.

"There's no way we can reach Cruz-Gesenko and not get flagged by police in this car and looking the way we do. They'd never believe for a second we were U.S. military, either."

"But I _am_ U.S. military—"

Hermione slams on the brakes, kills the engine, and leaps on him, wrapping her hands around his neck and putting her knee into the curved crevice of his ribcage.

She slams the back of his skull against the window, cracking it. "You are the Winter Soldier! You belong to HYDRA! You need to lock Sargent Barnes away because he will _ruin_ your mission. He'll stop you from killing Cruz-Gesenko. You will fail if you indulge this side of you, and HYDRA doesn't keep around failures. Amdaal will kill Natalia, and I can't…" She lets out a shaky breath. "I can't let that happen. Because your mission isn't just killing Cruz-Gesenko. You have to save her, understand? I'm ninety percent certain I'm not getting out of this one. I was going to try and relieve you of all this afterwards, but I can't. There's no _after_ for me."

He writhes and kicks and struggles beneath her, but every muscle in her body is clenched and pressing against him, trapping him.

"Желание," she begins in a whisper.

"Nnnnn," he tries.

"Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Pузовой вагон."

He fights and struggles and squirms until she finishes and like flipping over a card, his eyes are empty and his features sharp and alert. Hermione can't think of a time she's felt more disgusted with herself.

"Ready to comply," he says.

* * *

They arrive to Kabul in a late 90s, dented Corolla wearing burkas. Doing the reset has made the Solider quiet, and he doesn't speak unless spoken to. He wouldn't eat, either, belaying he couldn't _"partake"_ until his target was eliminated. He did accept a small amount of water in the six hours but never enough to inconvenience himself and her for a bathroom break. He didn't even flinch when she chowed down her sandwich or show any interest when she tore open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, making the car smell like salty, tangy salvation.

As far as last meals go, Hermione knows she could've done worse, and she's disappointed she'll never get to have that burger with Coulson. She lets out a bedraggled sigh and kills the engine two miles from Amdaal's compound, and the Soldier whips out his gun and points it at her face, flicking off the safety.

"Why did you stop?" he barks in Russian.

She opens her laptop to get an update on satellite imagery of Amdaal's property. There are more security guards than there had been ten hours ago when she checked at the safehouse but that's expected. Hermione zooms in further, hoping to catch something—anything—that could indicate Natalia or Cruz-Gesenko weren't already dead. Nothing.

"Because I'm ninety percent positive I'm going to die in the next twenty minutes, so I think I deserve _one_ of those to gather my bearings and reflect on my life." She snaps the computer shut and glares out her windshield and hating she must die _here_. It's not even a now thing. She doesn't want to die here in Kabul. She hates it here. It's the worst place. She'd rather suffer a bullet, blind folded and crouched on a studio floor in the Red Room.

"Romanoff," begins the Soldier as he lowers his gun, tearing Hermione out of her thoughts. "She's your friend."

"Yes," she eventually replies.

"She's like a sister. You'd die for her."

"We've known each other since we very young." Barnes must be weaseling his way back to the surface. She looks at her watch.

How timely of him.

"You've fought alongside her," he assumes.

"Once upon a time, yes."

He blinks a few times, and he looks perplexed. "She's not HYDRA."

"No."

He's quiet for a moment and then says, "I think we've been together since Zabol, but I don't remember all of it. Did you ever tell me your name?"

She snorts, shaking her head no. "You never asked. You're not supposed to."

"Yes, agent." He snaps his attention to what's outside his window.

"Milas," Hermione relents. She's told him her name before. "My name is Milas."

The Soldier frowns. "It's not really that, is it?"

He doesn't wait for answer but pockets her knife and grabs his precious HK 416. He cranks open the door, slamming it shut and taking off in a sprint. Hermione stares at the empty passenger seat where he'd been a second ago and then whips her head around to try and find him. He's gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: One Time in Kabul II**

What the hell just happened? This isn't the plan! _Shit!_

She drives the remaining two miles and comes to the gate of the property. Armed guards appear behind it, yelling at her to get out of the car and remove her burka. She opens the door, and the gate swings open, and she hurries and flings off the heavy material, exposing her face to the AK 47. A guard not holding his gun to her has a photograph in his hand, and he's looking back and forth between it and her.

"It's her," he says in Farsi.

"Where's Natalia?" she asks and the man laughs, cupping her chin and dragging his thumb across her cheek. His gaze his appreciative, and really, he should get out more. She looked better after the Soldier beat her to a pulp that one time in Sokovia.

"Pity," he continues. "It's a work of art."

From the side, abrupt movement from one of the guards flings himself at her face, a wickedly curved knife gripped in his fist.

"Stop!" she shouts.

The man stiffens in place, the blade centimeters from her cheek, a snarl on his lips. Amdaal really, _really_ should've given the order to kill her on sight.

Hermione flies into his head and takes control and then she's onto the next guard, hopping from man to man, overriding their control boards with a direct and solid push of her power. They are all hers for the taking in a matter of seconds and what a feeling to have a unit of complete loyalty in such short notice.

The feeling isn't a _pure_ sensation. She's not drunk or high off her abilities. Her feelings are muddled. She still feels their distaste and hate for her underlying the hijacking. It's in a stasis. Put on a hold as responsibility and the crippling weight of fear and belief in their master and god lifts from them. If anyone is blessed with high-altitude catharsis by her abilities, it's them.

"Escort me, gentlemen," she starts, "to Amd—"

 _Ping!_

 _Ping!_

 _Ping!_

 _Ping!_

 _Ping!_

 _Ping!_

Said gentlemen drop like flies around her, and there's the Soldier running towards her, battle mask in place and mangled mop flowing in the warm wind. He barely glances her way as he rounds the corner, through the threshold of the open gate. The arm not holding his rifle gestures at her to follow.

"Come on!" he shouts at her in Russian.

She scrambles to her feet and grabs her backpack from the car before sprinting after him, gaping, and pissed as hell. So now he's going through with the plan, is he?

"I had them!" she yells, catching up to him to grab his Glock 19 from his holster. It's ill-fit for her hands, but she can't be picky.

"Didn't look like it to me," he argues, not even breaking speed as he kicks in the door.

"I did. And you ran off. Why did you run off?"

"I didn't trust your satellite image. I needed to see what was going on with my own eyes." He's running up the stone steps, and Hermione's got his six. So far, no one to be seen…

In the corner of her eye, she sees little bodies run from one room to another at the end of the hallway on their left.

"Children." She eyes him and his firearm warily. "I'll check it out. Keep a lookout. If you see Cruz-Gesenko, kill him."

"What about Amdaal?"

"Especially him."

"Romanoff?"

" _Don't_ kill her _."_ She turns her back to him. "I've got coms in my pack. Get them out."

The Soldier unzips the pack and finds them, shoving one into his ear and handing her the other. She wedges it into her canal, flicks it on, opening and rotating her jaw to clear the static and tingles itching up her eardrum.

"What if Romanoff is hostile?"

"You shot her not three days ago. She's not going…" She lets out a breath. Three days of healing means nothing to the Chelintsov program. "If she's conscious, tranq her. Make sure she doesn't see you. But your focus is Cruz-Gesenko. Kill anyone besides Romanoff who gets in your way. _Go_."

He checks the two nearby bedrooms, finding them empty before hustling downstairs. She goes down the hallway where she saw the shadows of children, pressing her back against the wall. She focuses on the barrier, zoning into the wavelengths of her abilities and breaking passed it. Her earpiece crackles and whines form the interference. There are busy, frightened minds belonging to three women, two children, and a teenage boy. Cousins of Amdaal. Wives to the dead men outside. The women are armed as is the teenager.

They're waiting for her.

Hermione's not concerned. She backs away from the door, getting out of the hallway. There's nothing for her here. When she reaches the top of the steps, the door opens and the teenage boy—no older than thirteen—bursts out with his firearm going off.

"You killed my father! You killed my father!" he screams in Farsi, and she falls a few steps down the stairs to get out of the way.

His aim is terrible for such a narrow passageway before him. He's young, though, and the gun likely weighs a third of his own body weight. He _does_ manage to graze her arm. She hisses at the wound. The firing of the weapon stops, and she hears clumsy footfalls hitting the floor, coming closer.

"Stop!" The whine of her earpiece resurfaces, higher-pitched, and she yanks it out. The tiny device releases a tiny stream of smoke, and she's sees an electric spark coming from a splinter in the enamel. She frowns and then pockets the useless thing and turns her attention back to the boy. He's frozen atop of the stairs, gun strap loosely hanging off him and the muzzle of the firearm pointing towards the ceiling.

"Go back to the room," she orders in Farsi. "Tell the others it's not safe to leave."

"Yes," he agrees, his chin trembling. His teenage spirit is surprisingly strong under her control. He's fighting _hard_ and is not complacent under the weightlessness of her oppression like the men were.

"But before you go. Where's your uncle?"

He gurgles, his dark eyes wide and watery. A tear slips down his cheek. His teeth willfully chatter. He's trying to bite his tongue.

"He's not a good man, Kardaar." She hears his breath hitch. "That's your name, right? He's not. He hurts people."

"You're not good," he grinds out.

He's not complying. He's forcing himself against her. Not just trying to move from his frozen position but against her powers. _No one_ has been able to do that. No one has been able to since 54.

A pressure scrapes across her frontal lobe, and she takes a step down. "You're like me," she accuses.

"No. I'm much worse."

Violent vibrations travel up her legs, and she instinctively grips the metal banister. Much of the property is made of stone, and dust spills from the cracks.

"What are you doing?"

"It's coming," he says.

She aims her gun at him. "What is?"

"I can't stop it now."

She flicks off the safety of the gun. The entire property is shaking, and she can hear the women and children screaming down the hallway. Kadaar now seems to vibrate, and the black-ish brown of his eyes fade into a translucent color. Wispy black matter erupts from him, almost engulfing him. It billows and retract, taking on a high-pitched hissing sound.

Hermione pulls the trigger. The agitated black mist contracts and abruptly thins, colliding with the walls and ceiling. It rattles the house and breaks the windows downstairs. Sheets of dust fall from the ceiling from the momentum, and she rolls backwards down the stairs, hitting the main floor and getting to her feet. She doesn't glance up at the boy's body but does file away this memory for a later time because what the hell was that? What was he?

Door after door she opens until she finds a set of stairs leading downwards.

"Soldier," she calls out.

At the bottom of the staircase, she can either go left or right. Her eyes sink to the trail of bodies in both directions. Armed men quickly cut down by the Soldier's impeccable aim and agility. The hallways are long and seem to stretch on forever, becoming deep tunnels underground. She follows one of the trails. The ping of a silenced firearm coming from behind her catches her attention, and she turns. Two clips hit her side, and an electrical charge surges through like chunks of white hot gravel hitting her bones and scratching her veins.

Her vision goes dark.

* * *

Submerged almost to her chin in icy water and only in her underwear is how she wakes up. In a rectangular tub, her wrists are stretched anchored to the ledges, and her ankles are manacled and secured to the bed of it. Water laps at her chin. Her vision is filmy, and everything is too heavy. Her head, her limbs, her body. It takes all her strength in keeping her head up to stop from drowning. On her side, she sees an IV rack and the five different bags coming together into one thick tube attached to the crease of her left arm.

Drugs. Loads and loads of drugs.

She can't break the cuffs on her wrists or ankles.

On the opposite side is a machine, the circuit board is made up of dials and knobs. Four sturdy wires are connected to it and float atop the water. Her eyes follow their path until she concludes they are just as much connected to her, too. She now sticky patches at the top of her spine, at the base, and behind each knee.

"You're awake. Good."

Hermione turns her head slightly, a brown masculine hand dipping fingers in the water. Her eyes travel up the length of the naked arm which is attached to a trim, naked torso. Amdaal grins down at her murderously and looking as whole and unhurt and so unlike the state she left him in.

"How?"

He circles the tub, and her falls to his back, surgical scars marring the spine. Nestled at the base of his spine is a device. A device structured like a centipede. Pure HYDRA tech and last she heard, the technology was still in prototype phase.

Hermione widens her eyes in alarm, and she regards him in horror. "Where did you get that?"

"Where do you think?"

"John Garrett," she says. The second mole. But that doesn't make sense at all.

He looks down at her. "So that's his name? I just know him as The Clairvoyant."

Her body's useless, and her mind more than half gone, but she's able to catch a glimpse of Amdaal's dealings and sees the pilfering of a cousin's nest egg and funding Garrett's small operation in exchange for the Centipede prototype. She struggles to dig deeper, to hurt him even, but a sharp pain blooms in her skull. Garrett has no real idea who this man is or about his ties to Al Quade. He has no idea he's being used to gather intel on HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. He became an unknowing backdoor for his client.

"Wonder what he'll think when he finds out about you. Harassing and torturing a fellow comrade as well as skimming off S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bank accounts."

Amdaal. "He should be more careful. I'm sure his superiors won't be too happy when they find out about his alter ego. Selling western technology to the enemy."

Her teeth start to chatter. The water's freezing, but it's keeping her alert enough. Silver linings. "Why the drugs?"

"You need to be subdued. It's hard to forget how a little thing like you broke my back like a pencil, Rebekah. I hope it's all right if I still call you that."

She lets out a sigh. "You should've had your men kill me the moment I pulled up, Amdaal."

"Maybe. But having you come all the way here just to gun you down on sight would've been _boring_. This is so much better. I'm going to have you begging for death. Do you know what you're in?"

Yes, but she shows no fear.

 _More Than Meets the Eye_ comes to mind.

"Where's Natalia?"

"Where's Kadaar?" he hisses, bracing flexed arms on the ledge of the tub. "Killing my men is one thing, but my nephew? Were my parents not enough for your blood-thirst? Your spider's dead. The man you brought along will join her soon."

"And Cruz-Gesenko?"

"I haven't decided what I'll do with him, yet. He possesses a considerable sum I'd really, _really_ like to have for myself. I could drain him, but he's sitting on more than just a bank account. Isn't he?" Amdaal chuckles. "Now I'm sure your sweet Natalia was enough for _you_ to come to the rescue, but you had to have promised much more to come out here as fast as you did. What's he to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why was Romanoff taking him to Russia? I've interrogated him. Tortured him to the brink of death, and he won't speak."

"I don't know."

He nods patronizingly. He doesn't believe her because he's not an idiot anymore. She broke his stupidity simultaneously with his spine. "I thought as much," he says and puts a hand on the machine next to the IV rack. "But I have ways of making the clueless feel inspired."

On top of the machine is a bit which he shoves into her mouth before flicking on the machine. It whirs to life, and he twists the dial.

* * *

For most of Hermione's life, she's been subjugated to all kinds of torture. She thought she knew pain before.

She'd been wrong.

"Everyone has a breaking point, Rebekah." He removes the bit. "Even you. We've been at this for twenty minutes. Your heart can't take much more. All you have to do is tell me what Cruz-Gesenko is to S.H.I.E.L.D., and we can find another more...pleasurable activity. I still have that whip. You liked it, didn't you?"

His fingers dance from the top of her spine to below her shoulder blades, snapping the thick strap of her sports bra.

"Not as much as I like this," she says. "Baby, I wished you did this to me before. I wouldn't have left in such a huff."

"Oh, how I've missed that sass, Rebekah."

He turns the dial higher. Hermione considers dropping her face and inhaling. He's right. Everyone's got a breaking point, but her limit means suicide, not confession. She's HYDRA. She'll die before she tells him anything that could compromise S.H.I.E.L.D.'s true nature.

Static, garbled words echoes throughout the dimly lit room, and Amdaal leaves her sight.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"The man who came with the Widow," replies a frail, pain-stricken voice, "is dead. Everyone's dead. I've been shot. I'm not going to make it, cousin."

Hermione lets out a sigh, tugging at her restraints uselessly. Part of a heavy weight has been removed from her chest. She doesn't know if Natalia's alive or not, but she's willing to let go now. HYDRA won't be revealed. Her orders to the Soldier were to kill Cruz-Gesenko and save Natalia, not her. If he couldn't do the second, his mission's over and he can contact his handlers. They'll meet at a rendezvous point, and her corpse'll be here.

Aside from whether Natalia is still kicking, the most unfortunate thing about this whole ending is that Amdaal will live.

Hermione expects Amdaal to stomp up the machine and twist the dial to the highest charge. Instead, she sees the years have taught him quiet anger. He's calm when he comes to sit on the ledge of the tub, and his hand is gentle when resting on the back of her head.

"Even now I still adore you, Rebekah," he tells her. His fingers stroke her wet hair. "I'm a weak man. You besotted me in the beginning and as much as I hate you, I love you with _every_ fiber of my being." His voice cracks. "All but few of my family are dead. Because of you, and I still…" He coils his fingers around her hair, yanking. "I still want to keep you. It's pathetic, but I still believe I can tame you, given time. I could make you love me."

Apparently, she _didn't_ break his stupidity enough.

"Just kill me," she mutters.

Amdaal's silence is pensive. After a while, he exhales tiredly. "My life has been nothing but hell since you wounded me. The device of The Clairvoyant's aids me to walk yet does nothing for the pain. I am in constant agony, Rebekah, and the device won't keep me on my feet forever. Either it will glitch or The Clairvoyant will come and rip it from my body after finding out the truth. He'll hunt me down and leave me in a worse state than you did. He won't spare the precious few I have left. Perhaps it's time we both go."

He lets go of her hair and flicks the switch. Over the deafening sound of her agony, she barely hears the sound of a gunshot. With her eyes closed, she doesn't see the water darken from Amdaal's blood, nor his upper half hunched over in the tub. The pistol he used hits the bottom of it.

There's no point in fighting any longer. She spits out her bit and inhales.

 _Hail HYDRA!_

* * *

Consciousness is an excruciating experience. Her insides burn, and her chest aches. Her stomach feels torn. Water dribbles from her mouth as she lay curled on her side, the dirty cement floor cool on her skin. As her mind starts to sort things out, her eyes focus, and there are black-clad knees in front of her face. When her coughing subsides, she rolls on to her back and gazes up at the Soldier who's hunched over her too close.

He came back for her.

Her hand comes to her chest, tender to the touch and then to her lips. He gave her CPR.

"You saved me." Every muscle in her body screams as she sits up, and the Soldier's metal palm rests on her mid-back, supporting her.

He doesn't apologize for disobeying orders. His fingers touch her chin, thumbing the skin there and over her jawline. It's an intimate gesture and should jumpstart her in a panic, but she almost died. She almost died, and he saved her. It's one thing to come back and find her but another to resuscitate her.

She cups his face. "You saved me," she repeats.

Years from that moment, they'll argue about who made the first move. James will accuse her of kissing him, and he's right, though she'll never admit it. They'll also argue about what follows. Out of everything Hermione has done to him, he'll never get passed this one thing.

Their lips meet.

It's not a kiss out of the movies or novels. Music doesn't play in the background, and the moment doesn't last forever. The credits don't roll. In fact, their kiss lasts but a few seconds because she hears scuffling coming from the tunnel-like hallway.

"I contacted my handlers after completing my mission," reveals the Soldier. "There was a unit doing a flyover close by."

Before either of them can even stand at attention, Brock and Sanderson enter the room. Hermione clamors away from the Soldier and crawls towards Brock, unknowingly devastating the former. Brock helps her to her feet while his partner approaches the Soldier.

"Cruz-Gesenko is dead. Romanoff is alive," reports the Soldier. "She's further down the tunnel."

"You did good, Soldier," says Sanderson.

Hermione wraps her arms around Brock's neck, burying her face in his shoulder and unable to stop the flinch at the sound of Sanderson tranquilizing the Soldier. She hears him fall to the pavement with a _thud_.

Her lips are still tingling.

* * *

The quinjet touches down on the Lemurian Star long enough to shuttle two gurneys onboard. It's the closest base, and both she and Natalia need immediate medical attention. Amdaal had kept her alive, but barely so. While Hermione recovers in the medical bay, resting and stewing alone with her guilt of being unable to relieve the Soldier of his treacherous existence, Natalia suffers two surgeries.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione heals first and by the end of the week, she's scheduled to return to work. The morning of, she wakes to find Natalia in her tiny cabin, perched beside her on the mattress. She's dressed in soft, loose clothing, and her skin is pale and green eyes are tired.

"You came for me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione sits up, not missing a beat. "If anyone's going to kill you, it's going to be me."

Natalia half smiles, but it falters. It's just them in this tiny cabin of Hermione's. There's no need to be strong when there's every reason to be vulnerable.

"I thought," Natalia sucks in sharply, "I was going to die. I was in and out of consciousness all the time and one of the few times I was awake, Amdaal told me I was bate. It was just to lure you there. I didn't believe for a second you'd come for me. Why would you?"

Hermione doesn't indulge Natalia but watches her critically eye their surroundings, an unimpressed wrinkle under her left eye. Her cabin _is_ tiny, consisting of a bed and dresser in one, a sink, and the shallowest closet known to man.

"You should transfer to Washington. We could be," she swallows, "roommates again. Once you've given your report, Fury will be begging you to join his team."

"I went over him directly to Pierce, and the operation didn't go over as smoothly as we initially planned."

"Cruz-Gesenko is dead," states Natalia. "That's on me, not you."

His death was the one thing that went right. Everything else went south. Hermione got captured and and tortured with her super-strength, abilities, and all. Pierce was right. She's a malfunction. Even hand-to-hand, she can't beat the Winter Soldier. Her one saving grace is how she won't be taking all the brute of it. John Garrett will have his share.

"It's not like they're going to fire you," supplies Natalia. She sweeps another look around the cabin. "And I can't see how they can demote you further."

"Mailroom, Level 3."

Natalia stares blankly. It's her horrified look if you know her well enough to recognize it.

"I think", Hermione says slowly, "nothing'll really change. I'll get reprimanded and be suspended for six months from Level 5. Then everything will go back to normal." She looks down at her lap, smiling sadly. "I'm not sure I'm cut out for fieldwork anymore."

"You need a partner. We haven't done a gig together in a long time, you and I."

"I think Barton will get jealous."

"I'm serious. You coming for me didn't go as bad as you think, and you're wasted here."

"I do good work interrogating."

"So do I." Natalia exhales softly. "If Fury does offer you a way of this boat, you're taking it."

"We both know that's not going to happen, Natalia."

The woman flinches at the name. "I wish you'd call me Natasha."

"Whiting it out and writing something else doesn't change who you are. It's doesn't change what you've done." Hermione leans closer to her. "Do you think these people— _S.H.I.E.L.D.—_ look at you and are relieved they're dealing with Romanoff instead of Romanova?"

"I'm sticking to the name," she says. "And _these people_ are _our_ people."

Hermione smiles bitterly. "We both play nice to avoid prison, and we've made friends along the way but don't get too attached. Barton. He doesn't even know half of what you've done. You think he'll be so fond of you if he finds the rest? What about his wife?"

Natalia gives her a considering look. "I'll never figure out how you do that…that Sherlock Holmes deduction crap."

"You do it."

The woman chuckles. "Not like you. Fury could use you out in the field. Fresh on the scene instead of straggling behind with S.T.R.I.K.E., dealing with scraps. _No one_ can do what you do."

That's not true. That boy at the compound. 54, wherever she is. She's not alone and the confrontation she had with that boy is something she lied about on her report. She's not even going to tell Pierce, unable to see what good it would do. The boy's dead. Pierce would shrug it off, tell her she'd been distraught, and her memories are muddled because of emotional stress. Or he could accept the story as truth and patronize her for believing herself to be special.

"No one can do what you do," Hermione hits back eventually. Her five o'clock alarm beeps on her watch. It's time to get to work.

* * *

 **London**

Soo-jin's heeled boots click on the slick sidewalk. Her nerves are on edge. She hasn't been to Muggle London since she was eighteen. She takes a turn, losing the hustle and bustle of pedestrians and coming to an empty street with a single telephone booth on it. She gets inside and picks up the receiver, plainly stating her business.

The atrium of the ministry is vacant given the time. The sound of her boots echoes in the vast emptiness, and she slips inside an elevator. She grips a strap and goes for a ride, getting out at a narrow, tiled hallway. Unspeakable Nott is at the end of said hallway, looking particularly dodgy in the dimly lit stretch. He's got a thin manila envelope in one hand.

Halfway to him, he says, "I don't trust you."

"What did you find?"

"I have half a mind to turn this around on you."

"What. Did. You. Find?"

Nott clicks his tongue. He's not intimidated by her. Not many English folk from his generation are. War _and_ this job tends to desensitize people, and in appearance, she's got nothing on Tom Riddle. Back home, however, she runs the show. Her people both respect and fear her.

"Oh, all sorts of things," supplies Nott. "Consider me a partner in your investigation if you want to see what's inside."

"After the very _Muggle_ massacre we walked in on in Kabul, I thought your boss gave you the hell no."

"This will be," he pauses, "an off-books project."

"I have lackeys, not partners." She makes a quick grab for the file, and the moment her fingers make contact, it dissolves into black and green wisps.

Nott laughs. "This is exciting, Soo-jin. You've gotten yourself wrapped up in a fascinating conspiracy, and I want in. We catch this _thing_ , I'll be promoted to head of the department. Not to mention the story's worth to the media."

"You don't need money. You come from old blood. Old money."

"I need positive _public_ recognition. The war tarnished my family's name."

"Your father did that." She juts out her hip, folding her arms. She scans the length of him, sizing him up in more ways than one. He wouldn't be an unattractive partner if she did take up his offer. He could be, like, her pet or something. Certainly nothing more, and she'd have to be careful on keeping the truth from him, but it's been easy enough so far.

The thing is, she needs that file and a steady source. She doesn't have access to anything of the United Kingdom's Ministry of Magic, and it's been a setback since she started the investigation in tracking down 17. England is 17's homeland. The new girl with the ved'ma scar and English lilt who called herself…

"I need to see that file," she tells Nott.

17's true name. It's evaded Soo-jin all these years. She's extracted the memory, analyzed and stressed over it in a Pensieve repeatedly and still she can't recall. The rush of the water's loud. The pipes creak. The other children chatter. 17's mouth is soundless as it forms her true title. Soo-jin has scribbled possible names that could match up with the lip formations, but none of them are right. She'll know once she hears it. Once she sees it.

"You're hiding something," Nott alleges. "I'll be willing to overlook that as long as you don't make it much more obvious. Stand by your claim you're obsessed with this theory for only curiosity's sake, and we should get along fine. If you can't manage, and I find this investigation is dirty enough to best be tossed, I'll withdraw my partnership and my assets. The envelope. It's just the tip of the iceberg."

* * *

 **Sokovia**

Strucker mopped the sweat from his brow, heart palpitating inside his chest. He dares inch closer to the glass, even going so far to touch it. This. _This_ is his greatest achievement, and Milas' blood made it all possible. Bless that young woman wherever she may be.

On the other side of the glass, hypnotic red swirls weep from the little girl's shuddering form. She's terrified at what's happening to her, but she's alive. She's healthy. Her heart beats, and her blood flows. It worked. It finally worked.

Ms. Bērziņš comes up beside him, penning something down on her clipboard. "Her vitals are stable. The serum worked. Using a descendant of a known Squib was a brilliant idea. What number shall we give her?"

Strucker removes his hand from the glass, shaking his head. "Wanda will do."

"And the boy? Pietro? Should we inject the serum into him, as well?"

"We'll find something else for him. We cannot risk the off-chance of killing him. Little Wanda will do good with him around."

The woman hesitates, regarding the girl in the room cautiously. "Sir, we're still not entirely sure what she's capable of. This isn't like Milas. We were never certain what the results would be if were to succeed. Only theories."

"We'll monitor her around the clock. Keep her in the room. Give her toys to experiment with first. Then animals. I suspect it'll be a long road before we're able to decide what exactly this red smoke entails and her finding the capability to control it."

Strucker leaves for his office, picking up the phone and calling Pierce immediately but gets his voicemail.

"Alex, call me back. I have great news."

To be Continued...

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, my! How'd you like that? Hope you liked it, even just a little. Share me your thoughts. And, hey! Hermione kissed Bucky! Wahoo! What? Not exactly what you were hoping for?**

 **Guess what? Next chapter is all about 2008, and you all know what that means! I'm excited! Are you?**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Eeeek. _Infinity Wars_ is coming out this weekend, and I can't function. We've all waited so long and now that it's here, I don't know what to do with myself. It's a bittersweet feeling. I can't wait to see it, but I'm dreading it at the same time. But come rain or shine, Saturday I'll be there likely getting my heart ripped out my chest, I'm sure.**

 **I caved to the awesomeness that was _Black Panther_ -I'm a failure-and put a couple of things in this chapter regarding it. I was careful, though. I feel comfortable enough in saying that the stuff I did put in aren't really spoilers.**

 **Guys, can I just say...that we're getting very, _very_ close to shiz hitting the fan? And I promise not to deprive you too long of this next coming chapter. It's already finished. Just needs editing and a kiss on the forehead.**

 **Please, please, _please_ comment. Tell me what you're thinking. I appreciate your thoughts a whole bunch. I really do. :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 21: Secrets Under Scars**

 **Iraq, 2008**

She's an hour behind schedule. Her chopper barely landed ten minutes ago on the base. Hermione's in the backseat of the car, turning her phone off and making eye-contact with the guard when her window rolls down. The gate opens, and the vehicle pull forwards. They park close to the front door. There are no lights on the property. Everything's pitch black. The slamming of the car doors sounds incredibly loud.

She makes out Ross' form and the two other agents and perks at the squeaking of door hinges. She follows them inside the house where here and there lamps are lit. There's an eerie feel to the place. The men she passes—military intelligence, black ops specialists—are quiet. They litter every available sitting equipment in a sitting room, makeshift office and rec room, and kitchen. They don't speak, and burnt popcorn permeates the air.

There's a harsh lethalness to the silence.

Only a handful bother glancing her way, and they all do a double-take. These men have been trapped between this house and base for three months. They haven't seen a woman at all during that time. More and more women enter the battle grounds each year, but none have yet reached their level of rank.

Ross takes her down stairs, and the temperature drops ten degrees. Hermione lets out a soft sigh, goosebumps erupting on her partially covered arms. Under her Kevlar vest, she's dressed in a loose, thin-material sweater and black trousers. Nestled at the base of her spine, her pistol.

The air smells of musty hearth, and she glides her fingers over the concrete wall as she passes, liking the coolness. She's hot and sweaty all the time. Iraq uncomfortable for her as are most of the middle eastern countries She misses Russia. She misses snow, trees, enriched earth instead of parched land. She's trapped on a ship in southern oceans, coming and going from warmers waters to arid deserts.

She and Ross come to a door. He puts his hand on the knob and looks at her expectantly. "Are you ready?"

"Sure."

He opens the door, and she walks inside the interrogation room. It smells of blood, agony, and dedication. Fadhil sits behind a cracked and bloodied table. His chair's imbalanced, and he's rocking. His face is soup and left shoulder is dislocated, and he's rocking. When the door closes behind her and Ross, he stops and looks at her. Black eyes, bruised and manic, hit her.

"Ved'ma," he hisses.

Fadhil doesn't say it quite right given the language barrier. He only speaks Persian and Arab, but she gets the gist.

"What did you call her?" Ross approaches the table, reaching across it and needlessly backhanding Fadhil which only makes him laugh.

"That's unnecessary, Agent Ross. He can call me whatever he likes." She braces herself against the table. The scar above her pelvis itching out of the blue. Word spreads about a young woman being the most talented interrogator. Rumors, true and false, bound to get thrown in the mix.

Fadhil spits a bloodied wad, hitting her in the face. Hermione doesn't even flinch, but she does close her eyes and use her sleeve to wipe the contaminated spittle off her face.

"Abegglen," snaps Ross. Impatient. There really isn't ever enough time.

She sits down, her own chair wobbly. "You're afraid, Fadhil. So much so, you'd rather be tortured again. You know who I am. You know what I'm capable of," she replies in his native tongue.

He lets out a soft chuckle, his expression relaxing. Like she triggered _peace_ within him. He fists his good hand and hits himself _hard_ right below his ribs and _how?_ How could she miss it?

"He's a bomb!" She grabs Ross's arm and tugs him towards the door, sprinting.

Fadhil detonates, and her bracelet's frequency is on too high. She can't create a proper barricade, opting for kicking the door down in time to fall on top of it, Ross over her. Protecting her like a fucking idiot. His blazer's on fire. She shoves him aside and tears it off him, becoming acutely aware of the ruckus going on upstairs.

"We're under attack," she announces to Ross's half-conscious self.

"It's a coup," he garbles. Then like a switch, clarity washes over him. "My boys!"

Ross' got to have a pair of bruised ribs. Even a twisted ankle. But he runs fast to inevitable death, and Hermione admires his sheer stupidity. Shaking her head.

Before running after him.

There are men on the stairs. Not theirs. Ross takes head shots, not messing around. He barrels up the steps, she on his tail and what they are greeted with is utter chaos. Ross turns around, grabbing her arm.

"Go back down!" he orders. "There's a cellar you can get do going left. It'll take you back to base—"

"Are you kidding me?!" she yells, grabbing her gun from her waistband and flicking the safety off. She knocks her shoulder into Ross and darts towards the noisiest part of the house. Bodies and injured soldiers cross her path, and she ignores the latter. For now. She thumbs the raised tab on her bracelet and thrusts her mind outwards, searching. The attackers who cross her path, she's ready for them. Three down like that.

She comes across a friendly and his trigger-happy finger. She jerks out of the way, shouting at him to hold fire. He does and throws himself against the window and entering the war grounds outside, taking out four attackers on the front lawn before he even hits the ground. Hermione takes a moment to be impressed by his enthusiasm, but that's only four attackers. There's still six more and one of them aims at the soldier. She guns him down flat and is about to take out another when a disturbance blips her frequency.

She's too slow to react but quick enough to only get in the chest where her Kevlar protects her. The blow makes her sway, the gunshot being almost close range, and warm, uncomfortable pain blooms between her breast. The attacker fires again, and she can only move enough to get hit below the ribs.

She doubles over a bit. The bastard's out of ammo now, thank God. He wasted his last two shots. Should've gone for the head, and she won't make the same mistake. He's dead. She dives out of the broken window and summersaults into the fight, popping to her feet and killing two attackers before losing her gun somewhere and having to show the remaining assholes a real good time.

She's a peach with an unpretentious knife.

Just saying.

She grabs her lucky knife from the strap at her ankle and throws it in the neck of the attacker about to pepper her friendly with his rifle. She takes it back with a good yank while simultaneously wrapping her legs around that bad man's neighbor's neck and body slamming him to the ground with a violent twist. His neck snaps.

Thre—no. Two more to go now. The soldier kills one.

Hermione wastes no time in disarming one of the two attackers, pleased and annoyed this one's a fighter. Young and agile and full of hate. He hates her. She reads his thoughts. The entire coup was to kill her and the CIA's most precious black ops unit. Two pains in the asses for Al Quade in the same building. Too much of an opportunity to pass up.

The attacker is skilled, and Hermione's disarmed. Her knife taken from her and then used against her. She's got her arms crossed, preventing him from gouging her face. In her peripheral, the soldier struggles. He's been shot in the leg, and in the shoulder, not to mention the bullets wedged in his Kevlar. He's likely got bruised and possibly cracked ribs.

It's not her job to protect him. She's an interrogator. A liaison for the CIA but an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and a near-lifetime follower of HYDRA. A dead CIA operative means one less to worry about when the time comes for her people to shine.

Then why is she fighting?

Why didn't she go along with Ross' orders and flee to base? To prove she isn't just a pretty, little girl who's good at asking the wrong people the right questions? No.

Is she fighting because these bastards are Al Quade and they're enemies of HYDRA, too? Maybe.

Is she fighting because she cares because that can't be right? She doesn't know any of these men. Only Ross and _maybe_ she does have a soft spot for him, but she's not in the house covering his six. She's here outside. Kind of helping this nobody.

Hermione doesn't take another second to dig deeper into her actions. She blows out the attacker's knee with a kick and then punches him in the throat once, twice, and then where his ribs meet. He's falls to his knees, the knife falling into her awaiting hand. She spins around and uses the weapon against him. Slitting his throat, warm liquid flowing down his front and onto her sleeves. He falls and so does the knife. His discarded gun finds its way to her, and she opens fire at the soldier's attacker.

* * *

The fallout could've been worse, Hermione tells herself, as she and the remaining drive to the next safehouse thirty minutes away. They can't risk returning to base out a fear of being monitored, and it's easier to shake a tail in an hour than ten minutes.

Aside from she and Ross, five soldiers out of twelve are alive.

Ross is livid. His men. His boys, as he likes to call them despite a few of them being as old or older than him, are dead or wounded. What pisses him off the most, though, is that she's _fine_. He likes her well enough, but he'd gladly trade her existence for one of the men they had to leave behind. Because after all, she's Red Trash. Or so he likes to call her in his head.

So Hermione doesn't sit in the front passenger side of the vehicle. She's in the very back seat, and the soldier she saved, his head is on her lap. He hadn't really intended to do that. In fact, he'd been resting his head against the window when Ross took a sharp turn, and the soldier teetered the opposite way. She tried moving him, but he's injured and pretty much dead weight.

For the last few minutes, she's been trying to wake him. Smacking his cheeks lightly and flicking his nose and ears. Hissing. It's dangerous to lose consciousness, and he's lost a fair amount of blood. The others are unconscious, too, or nearly there, but she can't do anything about them. Not anything ethical, anyway.

When they finally pull up to the safehouse, and a several medics spill out, she goes for brutal. This guy has got to get off her, or there will be a comical struggle getting out of the vehicle. She presses her thumb an inch above the bullet wound his shoulder, and he jerks awake with a pained growl. She pays his cursing no mind and climbs over the seat into the narrow cargo hold and opens the hatchback. Finding the lever on the side of the bench, she flattens her seat and then beckons the soldier to her after she hops onto the ground.

They have to reverse what they did to get in the car.

He's leaning on her, heavy and unrelenting. His feet are all but dragging, but she manages fine. They get inside the house, following one of the medics into—thankfully—a lower level bedroom sporting two cots and miscellaneous medical supplies on a table. She dumps him on one.

"Help me get his gear off him," she asks the medic, a young man no more than twenty.

"Do you know his blood type?" he asks, grabbing the sheers from the table.

Hermione now bothers to make a grab at his dog tag and gets a name with a face. Stevens. "O positive." She moves to his boots, unlacing and tossing the aside along with his socks. With the help of the medic, they're able to get him down to his boxers in seconds flat. Bruises litter his torso.

"How are you in removing bullets?" asks the medic.

She frowns. "How are you?"

"I'm in training and on-call." He helplessly holds up a wad of gauze. "I'm good at applying pressure."

"The leg." At the table, she grabs the forceps and then returns to hold his good shoulder down as she extracts the bullet from the other. Her hands are steady and quick, and she sends a quiet thanks to her early S.H.I.E.L.D. days post rehabilitation. The Red Room nor KGB gave her first aid knowledge outside of CPR and bandaging lacerations. S.H.I.E.L.D. taught her how to extract bullets from non-critical areas and sew or staple up wounds. It's crude and scarring, but life-saving in the end.

And judging by the nodule-like smatterings on his wrists and creeping up his forearms, this one may not mind marring.

When Hermione approaches him, rubbing alcohol and the surgical stapler in hand. She pours the liquid over it, and the soldier hisses. She pauses. It dawns on her he can still feel pain. The staples are going to damn near make him see God if she continues.

The soldier's settles his scowl on her. "Do it, bitch!" he says, his teeth clenched.

"I'm going to hold your other shoulder down again." _Clip, clip,_ and _one more_ for good measure.

He lets out a choppy howl, but it's louder than the one he bellows when she removes the bullet from his thigh and sutures the wound.

Hermione lets the medic give him the IV, rolling her eyes and wishing for a smoke as he misses four times before hitting a vein.

"Can you change bags?" asks the medic, gesturing to the blood bags. "I got to check on the others."

"Yeah."

"Can you hook up ghetto heart monitors?" He points to the ancient machine from the late 80s in the corner on the floor.

"I guess."

"Can you use a stethoscope?" He takes one from the table, wiggling it at her.

She takes it from him. "Sure."

"Gladwell!" A blonde woman pops her head into the room. "We need your pressure magic."

The medic disappears after her.

"Hey," says the soldier on the cot, weak and a tad disoriented.

She looks over her shoulder at him. "Hm?"

"I didn't catch your name."

"It's Bitch."

His laugh is short-lived. Groaning, he palms his chest and ribs and then sinks further into the cot. "Name's Stevens," he mumbles. His head lolls to the side, eyes lingering on her bottom but soon slide shut. He's out for the count, and darn, she can't tell him she's actually fresh on the market as of a week ago. She takes in the chiseled torso and pretty face and thinks she could do a lot worse. Hell, she's done worse. A flurry of all the old and unfortunate men she's had to bed for _work_ comes to mind. Very few times has she ever had to seduce a man as pretty as the guy in front of her. And the times she did, most of them were out of their fucking minds.

Ross enters the room, a limp in his step. "How is he?"

"He'll be okay."

He rubs his cheeks and then chin, eyes distant. "They were aiming to kill you. The unit was a bonus." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Now I got seven families to notify."

He says that like it's _her_ fault.

"You did good back there, you know," she offers, regardless of his misplaced resentment. "You need me to set that ankle?"

"Uh." He frowns at his foot. "I'll let the medics do it."

"You need be wrapped." She gestures to his middle.

They find a bathroom, and he's slow to take off his shirt, so she has to help him. He curses, his broken ribs jostling beneath this skin. His skin pinks underneath her scrutiny, but she's not sparing his form any lingering looks. He's got nothing to be ashamed of. What he lacks in remarkable physicality, he makes up in other ways. He's fairly green to be running this grand of a show, therefore, charismatic and a brilliant strategist. Mostly. Patriotic and ignorant. Unafraid to get his hands dirty—but not _too_ dirty—in the name of the stars and stripes. Yet, there's a childlike naivety he clings to. He's a believer in, not what his country is, but it what it should and could be.

In a lot of ways, he reminds her of Coulson.

"Yeah, I know. I look nothing like that GQ model in there." He tries to break the non-existent tension.

She snickers. No, but she's not one to compare her 'patients'. "How're things with what'shername?"

"Ah, she left me." He shrugs as she begins to prepare the wrappings. "Guess I'm not surprised, but she took the cat. And you? You and what'shisscaryface on the outs again, I hear."

His phone rings, and he quickly answers, his stricken features turning sour. "Right, sir. Here she is." He holds the phone out to her. "It's Nicholas Fury. How the hell did he get my number?"

She takes the phone. "Yes?"

 _"I need you on the helicarrier as of yesterday."_

"Can't, boss. On lunch."

Ross frowns and mouths 'lunch?'

 _"I got a good one for you. A_ _hard case for you. It may be the hardest you've ever come across."_

"You've got him in holding?"

 _"Don't get too excited. He's got a way of getting into people's heads."_

"You do know who you're talking to, right? And don't get excited? You called me."

 _"If you're able to figure out what his endgame is, I'm pulling you from your post. You'll no longer be considered for the Avengers Initiative. You'll be a part of the team."_

Hermione takes a step away from Ross, not wanting him to hear this. The CIA doesn't need to know about Fury's pet project and who's cool enough to make it on the roster. "I…had no idea you were even considering me in the first place, sir."

 _"I've been considering it since that Kabul fiasco."_

"That was a disaster—"

 _"It could've been worse. You did good for a one-woman army."_

He really has no tangible idea the disaster it really was. Her thoughts dip on the memory of the Winter Soldier. The kiss they shared, as brief and weak as it was, still haunts her. He still haunts her. She dreams of him. Not as often as she once did after that operation, but every now and again. They're not _pleasant_ dreams. In fact, they qualify as nightmares. He kills her in most of them, and she wakes frazzled and even a little scared in the middle at whatever hour of the day she's managed to nod off.

He kills her because he can't forgive her for not relieving him of the life he's cursed to live. He kills her because he regains his memories, and she's the enemy. He kills her because she's ungrateful he saved her. He kills her because HYDRA's had enough of her, and she's served her purpose. He kills her because _they_ know her insecurities and how she's slowly becoming disenchanted.

Brock had been the one to really jump-start her self-awareness, though he hadn't meant to in such away. His constant reminder of how HYDRA's initial promises wore her down. It also didn't help that Pierce arranged another bracelet to be slapped on her two weeks post Kabul, and Brock voiced his disgusted opinion on that matter, too. But where his belief holds strong in the bigger picture, her belief waivers. She _had_ been promised greatness and if Pierce and Malick hadn't let doubt in her overcome them, _maybe_ a crisis like what happened in Punete Antiguo and hell, even Harlem, wouldn't have been such a big deal. Maybe, just maybe, if they believed in her even half as much as she believed in HYDRA, she wouldn't be so bittersweetly flattered by Fury's _consideration_.

 _"A quinjet will be there at the safehouse in twenty. Be ready" Fury remarks. "I don't want to have to send in Romanoff. She's good, but this guy's got a thousand years of better on her."_

 _Click._

A thousand years?

* * *

By the time Hermione reaches the helicarrier via quinjet, she's too late.

Phil Coulson is dead.

Arms folded, back against the wall, Hermione watches as the medical unit gurney the body bag out of the makeshift coronary room. She follows them onto the tarmac and sees them disappear onto the quinjet she came on. He'll be going back to for D.C.

She'd been too late.

"You were late, Agent," Fury says from behind her. "I said yesterday."

Hermione turns around to glare at him. Wordlessly, she storms passed him, making sure to hit his shoulder with her own. "You should've contacted me _the moment_ you had Loki in custody." She sneers over her shoulder. "Don't follow me."

"Agent—"

"Coulson is dead because of _you_."

"Coulson is dead because of Loki."

"Who was _your_ responsibility. If you would've had your shit together, I could've been here to interrogate him _yesterday_. What exactly did you accomplish by sending in Romanoff?"

"Not enough, but something."

"Was it worth Coulson's blood?"

Fury lets out a sigh. "We know he's planning something big. We're still working out the details as of where."

Hermione takes the narrow metal stairs, a cold rush of thin air hitting her when she enters the place Coulson died. Her eyes fall to the sticky blood stain, and a deep sadness washes over her. She wasn't supposed to get attached, and she did. Her secret, silly crush. Coulson had been special to her but what an idiot he was for taking on that _thing_ alone.

"I know how much he meant to you," says Fury, squeezing her shoulder. "He meant a lot to others, too. He was a good man."

"Probably the best. He thought…" Her throat tightens, and she clears it. It feels like it was just yesterday they were in an overheated room, and he was feeding her Baltic Sprat. "He thought I was good. Or could be."

"Everything he said about you was true."

She flinches away from Fury because _she knows_ he doesn't really believe that. She's felt his apprehension towards her. His distrust. His solid belief in his gut that she's hiding something. Consideration for the Avengers Initiative or not, he still took a lighter to her Kabul report three years ago in front of Pierce and called bullshit.

Her boots hit the walkway, and she looks down over the railing at the drop. "Who was in the cage?"

"Thor." Fury joins her. "He'll be all right."

"Banner?"

"MIA for now. He'll be all right, too." He glances at his watch.

"What's your next move?"

"If you want, you can escort Coulson's body to D.C. The jet leaves in five. You'll make it."

She forgoes returning to the tarmac and heads down a hallway, finding a bathroom to splash water on her face. She stares at her reflection and tries searching for what Coulson saw. What did he see when he first saw her? Beyond somebody worth giving out a second chance? Did he see the same thing he saw in Natalia? A woman trained to manipulate and kill housing a hardened orphan in desperate need of a way out?

Hermione knows what he didn't see. He didn't see her truth. He didn't see her skull and tentacles and in hindsight, she's kind of relieved he died now than when HYDRA could no longer contain itself in the dark corners of S.H.I.E.L.D. Sitwell heard from Stern who heard from Pierce that they're looking at 2014. The funds Cruz-Gesenko stole were never recovered and set them back two more years than initially planned.

Bitterness lingers at the back of her throat. The big reveal used to excite her, even make her anxious. Now, she's not sure it's the way. But she does know S.H.I.E.L.D. and the entire western intelligence community must be overthrown. It's the only direct way to smother the chaos and unify the world. Now, she fears HYDRA's endgame might be tainted by corrupt, power hungry people. Like John Garrett who blindly sold his product to Al Quade sympathizers in exchange for an extra buck. Men like him, their intentions are not pure. They have multiple agendas; one just happen to coincide with HYDRA's.

In times like these when her morose feelings want to sway her further down the path of doubt, she reminds herself to be strong. To not let the way others practice effect the way she does. That's weakness. Letting one's self to bend because others disappoint is shameful.

Exiting the bathroom, Hermione comes across Steve Rogers skulking down the hallway and if Coulson hadn't died half-hour ago, she could've been inclined to snicker. His outfit's absurd, but Hermione doesn't even grin or salute. Captain America had been a hero to Coulson, and he couldn't even save him. Hermione had never believed in the mythos surrounding him—she's HYDRA, after all—and there certainly wasn't a reason to now.

She sighs. Coulson's death isn't Rogers' fault. It's Loki's. She _will not_ become one of those people who blame bad things on anyone or anything beside the person responsible. Rogers is here, sure, and an easy target just like Fury. But why waste the bullets when the real criminal is still out there?

"You all right, ma'am?" he asks, his blue eyes scanning her form for any injuries. His brow furrows at her non-uniform clothing. She's not in a body suit or the helicarrier's designated garb. She's still in her dusty trousers and boots. She's not suited to take orders nor fight any battles on this craft. She's just an interrogator from the Lemurian Star who got there too fucking late.

"Have you seen Natalia?" she asks.

"Nat _alia_?"

She lets out a breath. "Romanoff, I mean."

He's about to tell her but then stiffens, jutting out his chin and squaring his shoulders. "Who's asking?"

He doesn't know Hermione, and he probably barely knows Natalia, but he's smart enough to not be handing out locations of top S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to just anybody.

"Agent Abegglen."

The name means nothing to him, she senses, even though she's supposedly a candidate for his team and the best interrogator these people have to offer. Interesting.

Tony Stark pops his head out from around the corner of the hallway Rogers came from. "Fury wants a meeting."

Stark's about to disappear around said corner but pauses when seeing her. Hermione unabashedly stares back at him, head on and neutral-faced. "Hello, Mr. Stark," she says primly. "It's nice to see you again."

His dark eyes narrow, recognizing her immediately. He walks up behind Rogers, clapping him brief but rough on the shoulder. No friendship in the gesture but almost like he's dealing out a hint to other man. A warning.

Beware, Rogers. Danger is closer than you think.

"And here _Natalie_ was the only one I stressed over. Melissa, right? But that's not your real name. Because of course, it wouldn't be." He exhales, ragged and heavy. "God, I can't believe Fury…You know what? I can."

"I think I'm missing something," pitches Rogers.

And just like that, Stark's over it and over her. There are bigger fish to fry than realizing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been a pain in his ass longer than he could ever realize. Fury likely has a pull-at-the-heartstrings speech to get them going. And does he play them well with the blood-spattered collecting cards. Hermione eavesdrops, hoping to catch Natalia who isn't there.

Hermione finds her outside a medical-recovery cabin looking like she needs a smoke or twenty. She's visibly shaken, even a little sweaty, indicating she's gone a couple rounds both physically and mentally.

"Got a cigarette?" asks Natalia, her voice raspier than usual.

"I should've become one of those quitters who always keeps one around for times like these."

"A flask of vodka, then." The woman exhales, leaning back against the door. "The world's been going crazy for a while now, huh? I guess I didn't know just how much until now. What happened in New Mexico was so abstract. An unbelievable tale you knew was true, but you weren't there, so…yeah. Gods are real, and so are giant green monsters." She lets out a strangled laugh. "We weren't trained for this, Milas. How the hell are we supposed to fight them?"

The answer is to evolve because the world may seem to be going crazy, but it's always been like that, hasn't it? And to make up for such chaos, people must transform. Captain America lives. Gods walk among them, and giant angry men exist. Fury must be thinking, 'What a time to be alive.'

"Barton in there?" Hermione nudges her chin at the door.

"He'll be coming out of it pretty soon. I should check on him. Are you sticking around?"

"My assignment jumped ship, and I have no leads. Better get back. Finish my _lunch_ or something."

"The world might end. Fury could use you now, and _all_ your talents. We're going to get that lead soon, I bet you anything. We could use you on the forefront. Most of these idiots don't know what a good shot you are."

"The trenches aren't for us."

"We're fighters. Doesn't matter how you look at it."

Not even twenty minutes later, she watches Natalia, Stark, Rogers, and Barton sneak on a quinjet and take off for New York City. Hermione doesn't go with them, and Fury stares at her like he's come to a decision. She's not Avenger material, and that's a shame. Coulson's death wasn't enough of a push for her to join them, but Fury doesn't understand. She can't take her bracelet off again, and she can't let anyone see her fight. They can't know how easy it might be for her to win or how fast she can run. Natalia hasn't even seen Hermione land a punch since their KGB days, and she had to be careful _then_.

There's not another quinjet available for the _Lemurian_ or even D.C., so she's stuck on the helicarrier until the next morning. From a computer, she watches what will be dubbed the Battle of New York and concludes she's not needed as an Avenger. The team is already complete.

Hermione doesn't receive closure for Coulson's death. Loki's in custody for all a few hours before being dragged back to Asgard by Thor. She wanted to know his secrets because surely, he had more than the Chitauri are coming, the Chitauri are coming.

* * *

It's after eleven the next morning when she's stumbling into Natalia's apartment they share on occasion. She hears the shower on down the hallway, and Natalia's clothes and boots are strewn all over the place. Ever the neat freak Hermione is, she bends down and begins to gather them. They're casual wear, but Hermione sees the blood spots on them. Natalia's still scraped up from the battle, and why wouldn't she be? She literally fought in a war yesterday.

The clothes are taken to the laundry room where Hermione rinses the garments in cold water before hanging them over the sink. She can't wash them with Natalia being in the shower.

Hermione gets to the bathroom, the door ajar. She pushes it open further and walks in, sitting on the toilet to free her feet from her boots.

"Can't believe you got home before me." She removes her blazer next and unbuttoning her blouse. "I should be at work. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s in a mess. I should be, like, helping or something."

"I'm going on vacation," announces Natalia. "You should come."

Hermione stands up, looking at her through the glass of the shower door while removing her blouse. "Where are you going?"

Nat snorts. "I think Stark's taking Rogers to Disney World. I thought about going with them. I've never been, but…Laura's pregnant. She's due any day."

"And you want to bring me?" Bra and underwear go next, and Hermione opens the shower door. "Move over. I'm disgusting. I haven't showered in four days."

She hasn't slept in that time either, aside from ten minute power naps in various bathrooms on the quinjet from Iraq and then on the helicarrier. The last twenty-four hours, she spent the rest of her time on the craft cleaning and stitching up wounds and helping repair the mainframe damage of both Stark and Barton's coup.

"Laura wants to meet you." Nat moves out of the way of direct spray and reaches for the shampoo, pumping a glob into her hand and lathering it into her dark red tresses. Hermione takes a turn under the water, glancing at her friend's battle wounds. Scrapes and bruises everywhere. Dark blue and purple splotches on her knees and the back of them. Those are the biggest ones while the others are smattered and smaller. Along every nodule of her spine, there's a deep reddish-brown bruise.

"You look glorious," Hermione remarks. "Did you take some ibuprofen?"

Nat pumps another round of shampoo into her hand. "Come here." Hermione tilts her head back, letting out a sigh as the other woman massages the gel into her hair.

"I should be doing this to you. You're practically invalid."

"You can wash me."

Lips brush against Hermione's shoulder, and an arm encircles her waist. Natalia rests her cheeks right above Hermione's shoulder blade. "When's the last time you've even been with a woman?"

She lets out a laugh. "A while." Her arms reach behind her, somewhat awkwardly encircling Natalia's waist. "You. Way back when things were simple."

"Were they?" Her voice is soft, jaded, but then she perks up, nuzzling her skin. "Can I ask you a question? And promise…promise not to laugh. What do you think of Rogers?"

A small smirk appears on Hermione's face. "Assuming I've met this man, are you? I think it'd be more appropriate for me to ask you what you think of him."

"He's the first person of S.H.I.E.L.D. that hasn't judged me for what I used to be."

"He's not S.H.I.E.L.D."

"He's going to need a paycheck. Social security isn't going to cover an apartment here on the east coast."

"He could room with us," Hermione jokingly pitches. "He could be, like, our pet. I take it you'd prefer him all snuggled at the foot of _your_ bed."

Skilled fingers rub at her lower back. She winces when Natalia finds the knot resting there, kneading thoroughly. "Fury," she starts with a forlorn exhale, "is going to recruit you for something."

"Avenger related?"

"No. He's going to ask you to be Rogers' friend. Ever since he resurfaced, Fury's been planning a companion for him to help him adjust. I," Nat cleared her throat, "volunteered, but Fury said no."

"That was before yesterday. It'd make sense now if it were you."

" _Sitwell_ referred you to Pierce who pitched the idea to Fury. Whether it makes sense or not, I don't have the CEO and Stern's lapdog nominating me."

"It's Fury's idea. He's going to do what he wants." Hermione moves away from Natalia to rinse her hair and then switches places with her, so she can do the same.

Natalia rings out her hair and then applies conditioner before snatching Hermione's shaver from the shelf, forgoing her own. "So are you coming with me to Barton's?"

Hermione applies her own cream rinse, this one twice as expensive as Nat's and designed to tame beastly curls like her own. Nat's got naturally curly hair but not quite like Hermione's. Hers doesn't naturally bounce or flow. It just…is chaos ninety percent of the time. Kind of like her current thought process. She _can't_ go to the Barton's house. Visiting would run the risk of exposing his home and family to HYDRA because she may be followed if she decides to leave on an abrupt vacation with Natalia. She _won't_ do that. Barton's not a friend, but he means a lot to Natalia.

"I'm flying out to Kuwait tomorrow with both S.T.R.I.K.E. units."

And things are left there. Natalia can't ask, and Hermione can't divulge. As Hermione dries off and Natalia begins to pack for her trip, she contemplates the notion of 'breaking in' Rogers.

Wrong choice of words, but she can't help but inwardly snicker. Oh, what fun she'll have with him.

To be Continued...


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22: Build Up

 **A/N: There goes Marvel again messing up the freaking timeline, saying it's been six years since Battle of New York, but you know what? Screw 'em. I'm sticking to the original claim by Feige that shiz went down in 2008 because I can't even, right now. Not after Infinity Wars and how it damned near put me in a coma.**

 **Okay, guys, we're getting so _so_ close to The Thing! *Screeches in excitement***

 **R &R, please, and enjoy!**

* * *

 **Sutton Cemetery, England**

 **Summer 2010**

Ross gets out of the rented car, the humid air thick and uncomfortable. The sun reflects brightly off the clouds, and he slips on his sunglasses before slamming the door shut. He searches the vast emptiness that is Sutton Cemetery. Not even another living soul on the grounds paying respects to a past loved one.

He has no idea why she was here or why she called from here. Why England? What brought her here?

He's already done his research. There are five Abegglens in the graveyard, but he couldn't trace any of them to her. Still, he paid each site a visit, needing to see for his own eyes the undisturbed graves. The people they belonged to are long dead. Three of them formerly unmarked graves of German soldiers from World War I who never it made back home. The other two were a day-old baby and an eighty-three-year-old woman.

Every person stems from two people who each stemmed from their own families, but Ross doesn't know about Milas' family. She never talked about her childhood before the Red Room. Didn't even talk about the Red Room. She never talked about anything regarding KGB or FSB to him. He only knew what he knew which isn't anything outside of her heavily blacked-out, classified file S.H.I.E.L.D. provided the NSA and CIA six months post her capture in '03.

For all Ross knows, Milas Abegglen may not even be her real name like how Agent Natasha Romanoff wasn't born Natasha Romanoff and there's no record of a Natalia Romanova being born either.

That possibility weighs on him. There are things he absolutely despises about this world of espionage, and people never being who they say they are is up there in the top three. He hasn't searched archives for Milas Abegglen, but he intuitively _knows_ he won't find anything.

Ross doesn't want to sound like he's stereotyping, but she doesn't _look_ German and wonders if she even is. She might be partly, but there's something almost Mediterranean thrown in there, too. Her German is flawless, but so is every other language he's heard her speak and accent or dialect she's donned.

Four days ago, Agent Abegglen went missing almost immediately after it being revealed her true allegiance. She had never been rehabilitated from the KGB. She'd been a double agent for the Russians all.

He still feels sick, but more than anything, he's curious.

And fucking confused.

Ross traced her back here. She called him, and she was _here_. After she'd been declared missing and branded a double agent.

He smears a hand down his face, massaging his chin. Frustrated. His brain hurting. The locals have been asked questions, but no one has seen anything. Nothing out of the ordinary here in Surrey aside from a retired policeman dying from a massive stroke. Ross stares yards away at the funeral paraphernalia associated with honorable burials. The man was buried this morning, but Ross can't see how his death has anything to do with Abegglen, but it might be something.

Satellite tracing technology couldn't pinpoint the exact location from where she called him. All he knows is that she was here, and the perimeter is large enough that she could've even been across the street and not at this cemetery at all.

S.H.I.E.L.D. has an investigation going on. They're going to use their own satellite's imagery, and maybe if they're lucky, they'll find something.

Ross worries. Not just because Abegglen's missing. He's seen her handle herself just fine.

He worries because she _called that number_. A number she scoffed at three weeks ago and bluntly told him she'd never even consider it. A number that would be pointless to call at the point she did, given her status as a traitor.

* * *

 **Three weeks ago**

 **Riyahd, Saudi Arabia**

"You ever see an end to this?" asks Ross.

Hermione looks over her shoulder, seeing him slowly sit down in the pointless chair in the room. She returns to her task, folding up her clothes and stuffing them inside her suitcase.

"How do you smother belief?" she counters tiredly, shaking her head.

"That's not what I mean. You going back and forth between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the CIA. That's what I mean. Because I've been thinking."

"How dangerous of you," she quips, zipping up her bag and picking up her phone.

"You should come work for us full-time. This liaison gig has got to be killing you. Now even more so since D.C.'s home base for you."

Hermione texts a quick 'be home soon' to Nat and then another to Rogers before slipping her phone into her pocket. "I've got a flight to catch," she tells him.

He follows her and her luggage down the stairs, both of them pressing against the wall of the safehouse as three black-ops soldiers hustle pass them. One of them winks at her and tugs on her braid a little too hard.

 _Stevens_.

"Was that really necessary?" Ross _mildly_ admonishes as the three men snicker, Stevens the loudest.

"And you want me to work full-time with you _and them?"_

"But you really mean _him_?"

"They're all dicks," she says. "But _him_ , he's a special kind of jackass. I should've left him for dead when I had the chance."

"Hey, now." Ross gets defensive even though he knows she's joking. "He's one of the best on my team. And he's the youngest. Imagine where he'll be in five years."

Hermione hops off the last step and dramatically glances at her nails. "Probably dead." She buffs them on her shirt. "Like the others who dared imagine that far."

"God, you're awful."

"Yet you want to work with me." She shakes her head, smiling grim. "You hate this gig as much as I do, Ross, and you don't care about the guys _that_ much. Why don't you go back to being a spy?"

"Why don't you?" he countered.

"The world can barely handle Romanoff. Get us both out there, it wouldn't stand a chance."

She makes it to the doorway when he pipes up, "Before you go." He's got a card in wedged between his pointer and middle finger. "If you change your mind, call me at this number."

"I really, really won't." But she takes it and stuffs it into the back pocket of her jeans.

"You'll get health benefits. Dental. Vision. All the goodies. Those are hard to come in this economy. Especially if you're ex-KGB and not a U.S. citizen. I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dishing out the works." He leans in. "Imagine where _you'll_ be in five years, kid."

Hermione can't help but laugh. Before stepping out, she grabs a black abaya from the entryway closet and throws it over herself. "It'll not include wearing one of these in a hundred-degree weather, that's for sure."

"I'll see you in D.C." He keeps the door open and watches her toss her bag into the backseat of the SUV waiting for her. "I'll get those tickets."

She closes the backseat door and then window rolls down, her hands pulling down on the gap to show her mouth. "I want good seats."

"You call that number, we'll talk about good seats."

She blows a raspberry, rolling the window up.

* * *

Slowly but surely, they're getting through _Star Wars_ and mainstream Disney films. Hermione's got three hours of sleep in her back pocket, but she left work in Saudi Arabia to go to work here in D.C.

Rogers just finished a mission this morning in Pakistan. He's rested and showered—unlike her—and fiddling with the settings on his microwave while Hermione slips _Revenge of the Sith_ into the DVD player. She hopes it's not as lame as the last one and what the hell? She thought these movies were supposed to be great or something. Is she doing it wrong?

Some of the things she does with Steve to get him caught up with the times are new experiences for her, too. _Star Wars_ is one of them.

In all honestly, Hermione hasn't seen a ton of movies. While in the Red Room, every night was movie night, but there wasn't an endless supply of films nor a comfy couch and a bowl of near-burnt popcorn prepared by Captain America. There were metal desks and robotic recitations of movies' dialogue followed by oral exams on American-English pronunciation. It's why she and Nat sound the way they do instead like they grew up downing shots of Vodka and wearing over-fluffed ushankas.

Hermione collapses on Rogers' couch, remote in hand, psyching herself up for another two plus hours of turmoil. She's almost certain these movies would be incredibly incredible if Christensen and Portman were removed. _But_ they're, like, important or something. Hermione's not too far out of touch with pop culture that she doesn't know what happens.

"So I was talking to Nat today." Rogers shuffles into the sitting room, near-burnt popcorn in hand. "Apparently we're watching them out of order."

Hermione internally sighs for a hell of a long time.

This was an absolute mistake, she thinks for the millionth time in the last eighteen months. _Why_ did Pierce assign her to do this? She's not with the times. She doesn't watch television or movies. She reads books. A lot of books. And book recommendations for Rogers she can handle, and so can he. For the most part. _Lord of the Flies_ had been rough for him, believe it or not. But stuff on screen. They're both out of their elements here.

And Hermione _does_ know the answer to why Pierce asked her to do this.

No matter what she said to Ross earlier, she's doing spy work again. During her and Rogers' time together, she's eating and breathing his habits. His reactions. His mannerisms and behaviors. His likes and dislikes. HYDRA wants to know absolutely everything there is about him.

Hermione's been doing this for a year and a half.

She _knows everything_ about him, and it's disconcerting because aside from Natalia, she's never known anyone this well.

Not even Brock, and she's never spent this amount of time with _any_ man.

And they're not even sleeping together, for Christ's sake.

"Oh," she manages. She moves closer to the arm rest, so there's room for his gigantic body.

"We're supposed to be watching four through six first."

"That doesn't make sense."

He shrugs. "Nat said."

"Well, Nat doesn't know everything."

Rogers stares at her. Doubtful.

"Tony agrees," he mutters under his breath.

Hermione ignores him, and presses play on the remote.

 _Credits Roll_

Hermione hits the power button on the remote. Both she and Steve sit in silence. Her exhausted glare hitting the black screen and his befuddled expression resting on his lap.

"That was…" he starts.

"I fucking hate these movies." There. She said it.

She _feels_ him flinch at her profanity.

"Stark says it's un-American not to like these films," he says almost helplessly.

"I'm not American, Steve."

"Maybe the fourth one will be better."

"I'm not watching it." She dramatically throws crossed arms over her face.

"Not now. But later. We'll hit Disney more. I still haven't seen _Cinderella._ "

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

She removes her arms and frowns at him. "You need a girlfriend."

Like dunking a wild cat in bathwater. His mind is all hissing and screaming and scratching. On the outside, he's perfectly poised and gentlemanly and even smiling like he thinks she's joking, but she's not. If he got himself a goddamned girlfriend, she'd have a legitimate excuse to stop hanging out with him.

 _Sorry, Boss, he's busy bumper-boating Haley from HR and doesn't want to do stuff anymore._

Honestly, Hermione wishes Nat would just jump him already, but the woman refuses to touch him. Nat thinks herself unworthy. Impure. Tainted. _Too_ red and not enough white and blue. She's killed children and if Rogers even knew a fraction of what she'd done for KGB, he'd never look at her the same.

Nat's probably right, but Hermione can't see why he'd ever have to know. Even if he went snooping into her file, half her sins are blacked-out anyway.

On top of that, Rogers is a flower. Un-plucked. Velvety-soft petals all intact.

He's stresses about it more than he should. He's Captain America. An extremely busy man. When he's not kicking up dirt in the Middle East alongside S.T.R.I.K.E., he's saving face at all these fancy political galas and making heart-felt speeches at the Marines' Ball.

Mostly the Frustrated Virgin ennui he sports is because he's lonely, but Hermione's not trying to court him for _two_ reasons. One, she'd face Nat's hellacious passive-aggressive resentment for the rest of ever, and Hermione would rather suffer the Red Room again than do that. And the second, Rogers _won't_ have her. She reminds him too much of Peggy Carter, no joke. He can't even look into Hermione's eyes for more than a few second because it's painful

 _She has the same eyes,_ he thinks all the time. And, _Thank God she's not English because I couldn't handle it._

Irony.

Per eighteen-month old request of Pierce, the layout of her duties regarding Rogers and introducing him to the modern world did include seducing him.

To put it plainly, she was to be bumper-boating him.

Maybe that's too plain.

No, Pierce wanted her to make him fall head over hills in love. So much so, that when the time comes for HYDRA to rise up again, he'll question his allegiance to S.H.I.E.L.D. and everything the United States stands for. He'd thirst for her and her beliefs so much, he'd yield to her purpose and make it his own.

Pierce wanted her to brainwash him. There. Plain words.

Short of taking off her bracelet and shoving metaphorical, wriggling-fingers into his brain tissue, Rogers is uncrackable. He's never loved anything so much, he'd sway from his own foundation.

No current and living thing at least.

No current or _relevant_ thing.

Hermione touches her lips and briefly dips a mental toe into her waters that house the Winter Soldier. Make that frozen waters. He hasn't come out to play in a while. Since the resurfacing of Rogers, Barnes has been sleeping and snug in his chamber.

Rogers dwells on his fallen best friend a lot. Missing him. So much to the point of dreaming about him. For Hermione, there's something to be said about seeing from both of their perspectives their last moments together. From Barnes, Steve disappearing into the train tracks of the sky. From Steven, Barnes fading into the depths of a frozen ravine.

There's something to be said.

She's not sure what.

There's a sort of…pang she feels for Rogers. But probably more for Barnes. He'd probably wish he was dead if knew better and again, she regrets not taking the initiative and killing him back in Kabul. She should've clawed his out throat instead of kissing those pink pouty lips. It would've been more of a thank you than anything else.

"You need a boyfriend," he lamely counters ten seconds too late to even have it be a good comeback.

"Meh."

He points his finger at her. "There's a rumor going around about you and some CIA guy. Huh? What's that about?"

Ross wouldn't touch her sexually if President Ellis himself ordered it.

"I'd rather talk about your rumors, Rogers. _Star_ says you and Stark are all about the romantic getaways. Hm? Or about _Us Weekly,_ especially _?_ When are you and Nat going to set that wedding date? She's going to start showing soon and—"

He tackles her to cushion, digging his fingers into her ribs and tickling.

 _This_ is the real reason she wants to be done with the assignment. He makes her laugh uncontrollably in so many ways. She hasn't laughed so loud or so uninhibited since she was a child. Not all the time is it on purpose like this, and she worries. He makes her _feel_ for him.

When she can't take anymore, he lets up and embraces her like he she's a cracked doll, and he's _so sorry_. So sorry for her and Natalia, and the monsters they were forced to be. He yearns his arms to be like glue, and he wants to fix her. He wants to tinker at her with western pop culture he knows nothing about, Starbucks coffee, and early mornings runs around the Capitol. He wants her to feel safe with him. He believes he's got her friendship but wants her trust.

Because like Fury, he thinks she's hiding something and wants to know what.

She sighs into his shoulder, maneuvering her head so her cheek rests their comfortably. They're tangled up together on his two-person couch, and it's absurdly intimate because they're not being sexual. He's not hard, and the only warmth she feels is in her chest. Hermione's never been this—quite literally—wrapped up in a man or woman without lips and tongues and clothing-removal. Sure, she and Nat "cuddle", but it's different.

"Let's go out to a movie next time," he offers, stroking her back. She has to laugh because he's not even pawing at her bra-lines. Most men would go for it. At this point, she almost questions her own prettiness and maybe even his sexual orientation. But she knows he thinks she and Nat are two of the most beautiful women in the world, and he's shamefully taken himself in hand on those extremely lonely nights whilst thinking about fire red hair and slanted green eyes. Brown hair and brown eyes, too, yet not Hermione's.

As ridiculous as it sounds. As _stupid_ as it seems, she could fall asleep like this. She knows she's safe with Rogers. He'd never hurt her as the women she presents herself to be. He's warm underneath his tight cotton shirt and smells of good old American Tide with hint of cliched Irish Spring.

She's getting too comfortable, so it's time to leave.

Almost out the door, he asks, "You got your pepper spray?"

"Really?"

He lifts his hands in apology. "I'm sorry. One of these days we're going to spar. You're going to show me what you got."

* * *

 **Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel**

Hermione is in the throes of making a terrible decision. It's three in the morning, and she's not alone in her room. She needs to be quiet. The safehouse is pretty nice compared to the concrete slabs she's used to, but the walls are still thin. Ross is next door probably still awake, too, talking to his girlfriend back in D.C.

Stevens is trying and failing to figure out her Stark designed S.H.I.E.L.D. suit. He's unclipping and unzipping and getting nowhere fast. She's not helping because it's too entertaining, and she's not even sure she wants to go _there_ with him. He's a pretty slice of American chocolate pie, but she's taken a nibble out of his mind, and someone forgot to add the sugar. He's as bitter as a long-forgotten tin of unsweetened cocoa powder in the pantry.

He doesn't even like her, but he's begrudgingly grateful she saved his ass in Iraq way back when, and she's pretty enough he can overlook that she's an…inverse radish?

White on the outside. Red on in.

Good lord!

She laughs. Loud. Here it is 2010, and she's still facing Cold War slurs and _from the next generation_. Where did he hear such things?

He thinks her mirth is him finally conquering her suit. Her shoulders and long strip of her torso's exposed, and she takes pity on him. The utility belt around her waist will be a whole other code he'll never crack. According to Natalia who offhandedly pitched an idea to Stark a while back snowballed into a multi-million-dollar patent. Life's dangerous for spy, especially a female one. Life's dangerous for women _period_.

The suit makes her ninety-eight percent rape proof.

Hermione considers Stevens and sees the proof that not all sins go hand-in-hand. He'd never force her or anyone woman, but he'd impassively hold her down and choke the life out of her if his chosen occupation required it. He doesn't see woman as things to feel sorry for or protect. They're flawed and can be evil and terribly inconvenient like any man in the world.

As she disengages her belt, she continues to read him. Yeah, he definitely doesn't feel sorry for her. He doesn't pity the poor little Kraut who got misused by the Commies. People. Women. Children. Get abused all the time. It's just how it is. He does what he can with the means he's given, but at the end of the day, he's got bigger fish to fry.

Hermione's curious about that bigger fish, but she won't take all his secrets. He's not an assignment. He's a mistake she's prepared to make.

The suit's finally off, and the scent of talcum powder hits her. He wrinkles his nose, too, though, she's not one to be embarrassed. It doesn't smell bad. She just smells like a baby. It takes work to get in that clingy suit, all right, and the powder helps.

She's not completely naked, still wearing her sports bra and underwear, and there's still that moment of truth. For assignments, she hides her scars. For flings, she doesn't, and she can tell a lot by a person on how they react to _her truth_. The ved'ma scar is still noticeable as ever, and there's no hiding her apple scar now with longer sleeves. She has a dozen other scars, but those are the ones that really define her.

Hermione cups Stevens face. He's flicking those pretty eyes from her forearm to her lower pelvis.

"So it's true what they say." His fingers graze her apple like _he knows._ "You did this one to yourself, didn't—"

"Shhh." She silences him with a kiss because she's in no mood to reminisce over fairy tales and the parents who abandoned her. The kiss barely makes it passed a peck before her phone buzzes on the nightstand. Given the extra special ringtone, she knows it's Pierce. He's calling her home, and the sun's not even up yet.

She whispers a curse and flops onto her side, reaching for her phone.

"You're seriously going to answer that? That's cold."

"It's my boss." She gets off the bed and slides open her Milestone and flips it to better read the message. She lets out sigh. "I've got to go. Sorry. Maybe some other time we can finish this."

He's put out. She gathers he hasn't gotten laid in months, but he gets it. He gets himself comfortable on the bed even though he's still fully clothed save his boots. "Whatever," he says. "I'm staying here the rest of the night."

The unit and Ross will talk when they find him in her room the next morning, she reckons. Oh, well. It's not like she's got a reputation to uphold.

She gets packed and dressed and spares him a bummed half-smile over her shoulder before she leaves the bedroom. They'll never see each other again.

* * *

The message from Pierce has simply said:

 _Rogers is done. Meeting in my office at 8._

Hermione's not entirely sure what she expected at the meeting as she walked into his office. Certainly Sitwell writing down minutes and maybe even Fury if this wasn't HYDRA related, and all three of them were announcing to her that Rogers has lost interest in S.H.I.E.L.D. and will be going his own way in life.

No, when Hermione walks into Pierce's office, sleep deprived and starving, it's just him alone. He's standing close to his window looking out over the Potomac.

"Sir," she says.

"You haven't properly engaged Rogers." He sighs and begins to pace, his sight never leaving the waters. "What am I to do with you?"

The hairs on the back of her neck shoot up. "I-I've tried."

"I've given you eighteen months, and he's not even calling you a best friend."

"He's not attracted to me, sir."

 _This_ does pause him, and he stares at her now, brows arched. "Are you saying I should've had Rumlow or Ward take on this assignment?"

"No, sir. I remind him of Carter."

"Which is exactly why I picked _you_ for this."

That's news to her, but okay.

"It puts him off," she explains.

He strokes his jaw and returns his eyes to the waters, wistful. "We've started construction today on the crafts."

"I know. I'm thrilled."

"Are you?" He gestures for her to join him, and she goes to stand beside him.

"Of course I am. We're only four years away. I've been waiting almost my entire life for this."

"Agent," he starts, "I know being apart of HYDRA hasn't been easy for you. I wouldn't be surprised if you've…developed doubts."

"My doubts." She treads carefully. "Are not in HYDRA, sir. They're in people."

He's facing her now, and he's cupping her shoulders. "Do you doubt me?"

She swallows because she has in the past, but does she now? When he's brilliantly managed to string together the people and the money in building HYDRA's future. He's not perfect by any means, yet he's exactly who the world needs as its leader when the revolution begins.

"No," she replies.

"Do you doubt HYDRA at all?"

"In her purest state, I am her slave."

The backs of his fingers stroke her cheek. "Then you will kill both Steven Rogers and Natasha Romanoff by end this week."

* * *

"It's been nearly five fucking years." Nott pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey from his desk and pours himself a glass, mockingly saluting Soo-jin. His ex-fiancé sits primly on her chair unaffected by his impatience.

"For you. It's been five years _for you_ ," she clips. "She'll come, Theodore. I promise."

"She could be dead!" He slams his glass down. "I've poured what was left of my inheritance into finding her. I gave you my loyalty, but there comes a time, sweetheart, when you got to throw in the towel. We haven't heard a blip since Kabul. _Nothing_."

"She's not dead, I know it. I _feel_ it. She will go to _them_ and then she'll be here." She perches on his desk, caressing his hair. He can't help but lean into her touch.

"I wish I had your faith," he mutters. He pushes her hand away. "But until you've got something solid for me, I don't want see you again. You know your way out."

Soo-jin watches him leave, exhaling in exasperation. She, too, is at the end of her rope, and maybe Hermione Granger is dead, but she's not ready to give up yet. She's waited this long and will do so a little longer.

One year. One more year, and she'll be done. This obsession of hers has cost her so much already, the highest price being Theodore. Yes, one more year, and she'll give up. She'll move on. Somehow.

Unbeknownst to her, a year will be more than enough time.

To be Continued…


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Graveside Manner**

Pierce takes in her silence, thankfully showing no disappointment in her lack of eagerness. He smiles somberly, and Hermione's just glad her tongue didn't act on its own accord and shout _no._ No, she couldn't kill Natalia. Perhaps…God, she feels ill, but perhaps Rogers even though it makes absolutely no sense for him to die _right now_.

Her superior puts and arm around. "Let me show you something."

He takes her to his private elevator and after he overrides the AI regarding her presence, she manages to wrap her head around his order.

It was always going to end bloody with her and Natalia, Hermione knows this and has known it since the woman coughed her up to S.H.I.E.L.D.

She just…thought there'd be more time.

"The abrupt deaths of Captain America and Black Widow will raise all kinds of repercussions. An astronomical amount of scrutiny will be directed at S.H.I.E.L.D. which is definitely something we don't want. We're lucky Stark found nothing in his data breach two years ago. You think he wouldn't do it again more thoroughly if his friends bit the bullet. And I'm sure the NSA and CIA _and_ the Secret Service might want to meddle—"

"We're prepared for that. You'll be accompanying Alpha S.T.R.I.K.E., Rogers, and Widow to your old stomping grounds in Moscow. They got a mission to apprehend a turncoat and his ticket that'll keep him out of prison. We already have intel from FSB. They're planning a counter measure at the rendezvous point. Rogers and Widow will die in the struggle. S.T.R.I.K.E. will be your backup in ensuring that, but I put the responsibility on you."

"Why?" But even as she asks, she knows why. He doubts her. She's lost his trust. She's grown comfortable. Lax in her service to HYDRA.

"You do this," Pierce says and takes her hand, thumbing her bracelet, "HYDRA will have its own captain after the unveiling."

He couldn't mean it.

Her breath catches. "Sir?"

"I know you care for HYDRA. It's almost all you've ever known. Still, I sense you're tied down to your memories from before. Your parents, even at your young age, probably instilled certain naïve ideals."

"I hardly remember th—" she attempts to lie.

"Removing two of HYDRA's greatest threats will show me and the council you were the girl for the job after all and with a bit of coaxing, we were able to make the malfunction work."

Hermione internally winces at being regarded as The Malfunction and wonders how different things could've been if Natalia hadn't knocked her head into the barre all those years ago. Would another blow to the head which would've inevitably come along rattled her childhood loose?

The elevator levels, the door sliding open. Techs and engineers fill what will be the hanger of the most deadliest and ambitious weapons. Hermione follows Pierce into the mass of chattering bodies, people parting for him like the Red Sea. He takes her up a flight of metal stairs, so they can look at the excitement from above, and he points at cluster of computer technicians manipulating 3D holograms of the crafts projected from a smart table.

"You're familiar with the algorithm behind the crafts, I assume."

"Of course."

"Zola created an algorithm. Equations and formulas we were unable to make sense until the explosion of the internet and even better, social media. We're able to pinpoint threats to the world using his design and programmed it into the mainframe of each ship. You see that chip?"

A tech minimizes a craft and expands a rendition of a rectangular shape.

"We're not quite there yet in technology, but in four years, we'll be there. The chips will be hardwired in gathering precise data and exploiting those who are and will be a threat to what we work so hard to achieve. But," he smiles grimly at her, "these ships need a captain, and I plan to make it out alive after the unveiling although you never know, do you? I need someone young and fresh to take the baton. It won't hurt that you're pretty, too. People…often find your appearance comforting and if they don't, you can _make_ them comfortable, can't you?"

Hermione insides turn to ice.

"Sir, give me time, and I could have anyone warm up to me—"

"You can stop the charade, Agent. I know you're capable of forcing someone's hand, and I applaud you in keeping it under-wraps for so long."

"Sir," she grapples.

"Yes?" he replies patiently.

"I wanted to tell you—"

"No, I don't think you did." He waves dismissively. "At first I wanted to be angry. I did consider you've never used this power against me or any other of your superiors." He pauses, brows arched. "Have you?"

"Absolutely not, sir," she flat out lies. "I wouldn't dream of it. Only in the field. _Every once in a while_ …"

He waves dismissively at her. "And you never even considered using this incredibly convenient talent on Rogers."

"Oh, I did." This is truthful.

"So why didn't you?"

"Because I'm a lot of things, but not a rapist." She looks down at her feet, her cheeks suddenly feeling very warm. "Sir." Her gaze flickers back up for a brief second. "How did you know?"

"I didn't." He cracks a smirk, and he might as well have smacked her. "I'm glad you didn't try to lie too much. It gives you points in my book." He pats her on the shoulder. "You're a good liar. Trained by both HYDRA and KGB. You're going to have to be the best when it's you up in that office."

A buzzing sound interrupts the tension. Pierce retrieves his phone from his suit pocket which allows Hermione to check out of reality for a second and take a breath because Jesus Christ, she thought…

Oh, God, she thought it was over. She thought she was done and that it was all a ruse to make her eyes light up, only for Pierce to snatch his pretty words back and throw her deepest secret in her face. And, then oh, by the way, have a high-ranking S.T.R.I.K.E. member repel from the ceiling and shoot her dead.

"She's with me, Nick, don't you worry." Pierce winks at her. "Well, you've got your favorite ex-KGB assassin, I have mine."

Ah, Fury.

"All right, all right. I'll give her the message. She'll be in New York in two hours." Pause. "Of course, she's rested. She slept on the flight here. Listen, I have to go, but dinner at my sister's this Sunday. See you then."

He hangs up. "Fury wants you with Rogers. He's in New York."

Hermione looks down at the techs, a revelation hitting her. "He and Romonva die on a mission, and I'm the one who lives, Fury won't buy it."

"You let me worry about that."

* * *

Her stomach is a boiling mass of acid. All she can imagine is the inevitable. A bullet in Natalia's face. Hermione takes in a shaky breath, eyes transfixed on the streets of New York as her driver navigates through heavy traffic. She doesn't absorb anything or anyone.

Her thoughts fly to Pierce's promise, and she's so flattered because isn't this what she wanted and arrogantly wished for as a child? To rule HYDRA. To purify it. So wasteful and greedy she saw her superiors and peers be. She could fix it all with a little more than a snap of her fingers.

But the cost.

It's a price needing paid, though a price she doesn't want to be the one to make. And possibly may not even have had to. A lot of shit would happen after the unveiling of HYDRA. Maybe even a battle of sorts. There wouldn't necessarily have to be reason Hermione should be the one to pull that trigger. Her death then would be abstract and then it wouldn't hurt so…

It'd still hurt.

The only difference would be that Hermione would be the one to take her life. To see her life leave her.

For a foolish moment, she tries to fester up the old wound of Natalia betraying her. Tries reliving the blow, but the memory doesn't stir her because she accepted years ago Natalia did what she thought she could to save her. So she wouldn't have to be the person to put Hermione down in the end.

Hermione can't return the favor.

Her phone rings.

It's Natalia.

Her chest aches, and she doesn't want to answer, but it's probably about the mission.

"Hey," she answers.

Pause. _"You sound strained."_

"I'm in New York to fetch Rogers without a break from my last mission. Can you blame me?"

Nat sighs. " _I'm calling about what's coming. This is our first op together since the KGB. I haven't even seen you properly interrogate someone. All your vids and recordings are classified as Level 8 which means even you don't get to re-watch them…"_

Hermione continues to listen, and Natalia doesn't usually talk this much over the phone which shows how much she really is anticipating being back out in the field with her. Short and to the point sentences and then a goodbye.

 _"Anyway, you get those tickets?"_ asks Nat.

"My guy's working on it," Hermione replies distantly.

 _"Rogers is going to kiss you."_

That's enough to rattle her to get with it. She even manages a chuckle. "Yeah, I don't think he's going to be that grateful, so don't worry your paranoid self. He's still yours for the taking when you're ready." Her driver pulls up to the curb in front of the building. "I've got to go. I'm here. I'll see you late tonight."

 _"Stay with me tonight."_

"I didn't get lucky in Israel, so I just might." The thought of slithering into bed with Natalia days before killing her makes Hermione ill.

The phone call ends, and Hermione darts through the revolving door and takes the elevator to the eleventh floor. Where Fury said Rogers would be. When she reaches the floor, she immediately has to show her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge to several different people before even getting escorted to the set. And there he is, uniformed and standing tall and internally screaming like a wounded banshee between a white backdrop and a rolling camera.

"Hi, I'm Captain America. Here to talk to you about the most valuable traits a soldier or student can have. Patience."

* * *

Leaning against the table of the vanity, Hermione grins at Rogers. His blush still shows under the thick pancake foundation the makeup artist smeared over his face. He takes off his cowl and wipes angrily at his cheeks with a cleansing cloth a PA handed him.

"This is so embarrassing," he grumbles.

"Kids will love it," she chimes. Even more so after he's dead.

"What're you doing here?" He grabs another cloth, the old one completely soiled in beige.

"Fury called. Said you could use a friend."

His sigh is jaded and annoyed. "I thought I was done with this shi—stuff."

"Would it make you feel better if I dressed up as a star-spangled chorus girl."

" _No."_

And he really meant it. He thought a lot of those women were airheads. Very little substance. No personality. All wishing and waiting for the war to end but also hoping they'd score a husband along the way throughout the basecamp tours.

Rogers holds Hermione in the highest regards, and the corners of her mouth quirk just a little. He doesn't consider her a best friend but a close one, and he thinks she's so strong and so smart. And though he's not attracted to her, he likes the symmetry of her face and wants to draw it but nowhere near ballsy enough to ask. If he did find the courage, what if she misread his intentions?

"Hey, you're thinking too hard," she tells him, running a hand through his mussed hair. "You need a break. Let's get out of here."

"I got plans with Tony—"

"Cancel them. I'm here now. Besides." She whirls around and studies her reflection. Maybe she'll borrow a smudge of makeup to work miracles on those rings underneath her eyes. "I think you're going to enjoy a date with me rather than fueling those romance rumors alongside Stark."

They go to Coney Island.

The experience is bittersweet for him. She senses his melancholy the entire way there, but when they arrive, she makes a show of eyeing the rides with keen, possibly child-like interest.

"I've never been on a roller coaster before," she tells him, sliding her arm through his. "Or any fairground ride." She almost added 'or just a fair', but that would be too many cherries on the sundae.

Like that, Rogers throws his metaphorical Barnes in the imaginary closet and takes her by the hand. They've never held hands before, and she hates how small hers are in his. It's a reminder that it doesn't matter how little she is compared to him, she's capable of hurting him. Of killing him. They're both enhanced, highly trained in weaponry and physical combat. But it's her other abilities giving her the edge.

* * *

Smelling of popcorn and frying oil, Hermione quietly enters her apartment. Natalia's bedroom light is still on, and Hermione peaks her head in, seeing the bedroom empty but hearing the bath running from the bathroom.

"You won't want me tonight," she calls from the hallway. "I ate two overpriced hotdogs, drank a large milkshake, snacked on popcorn, and threw everything up after the fifth time on the teacup ride."

Natalia pops her head into the bedroom, smirk forming her lips. "And you got your face painted. An apple. Cute."

"Did you see the picture I sent you of Rogers?" Hermione picked a gigantic black widow spider to be painted on Rogers face. Once the artist finished, Hermione sent a photo to Natalia with the message:

 _Remember that time you drank too much and confessed how badly you wanted to sit on his face._

The woman rolls her eyes dramatically and disappears back into the bathroom. Hermione follows, stripping off her clothes and getting the shower ready as Natalia sinks into her eucalyptus-smelling bubble bath. Her stomach twinges at the scent, knowing Natalia has been hurt on her last gig and won't be fully healed for the mission in a few days. She won't even be at her best.

Hermione twists the knobs of the shower. "I'm going to shower."

"Your apple will wash off."

"Well, sometimes good things have to come to end." Her hand stills on the knob. She shouldn't have said that. The hairs on the back of her neck spring to life. She can feel Natalia's eyes on her.

Later when they're in bed together, Hermione tries not to let anymore show. She hopes Natalia doesn't taste finality in their kisses or in their movement, but the anguish inside Hermione can't be stifled. She can't do what Rogers managed to do for a few hours and shove it into a closet in her own mind. It's too prominent, and there's so little time. She can't climax no matter what Natalia does.

Natalia kisses her way up Hermione's stomach and then rises, gesturing to the drawer of the bedside table. "If you want, I got—"

Hermione shakes her head. She turns on her side and opens her palm. Natalia then lays down face her, interlacing their fingers.

 _Whatever you think is going to happen, it doesn't have to,_ thinks Natalia as her eyes flutter shut. _I love you._

* * *

 **Moscow**

It's a little after two o'clock in the morning at the compound. Hermione leaves Vasiliev in the interrogation room, closing the door behind her. The neighboring door opens, and Natalia steps out, lips parted in surprise and green eyes glittering. Even she can't contain her amazement.

"Oh, my God. I forgot how..." She shakes her head. "That was incredible. You got it right out of him—"

The power goes off. The sound of a door being kicked in down below cuts her off. Voices fill the property. Natalia instinctively removes her gun from its holster, and Hermione grabs her wrist, snapping it and covering her mouth to stifle the grunt of pain. The gun falls to the ground, and Hermione pushes Natalia against the wall roughly.

"Don't move," she says. The demand comes out choppy. Unconvincing.

Natalia's training overrides her shock. Her hurt. She bites Hermione's fingers and knocks her arm away, and Hermione planned for what was next.

The fight and the inevitable.

Which doesn't happen the way she imagined.

Natalia does indeed, collide her good wrist with Hermione's side, forgoing the neck and activates her Widow's Bite device. But after that, Natalia runs and as Hermione cups her side, she watches the woman's shadow touch the side of her head.

"Agent Abegglen has gone rogue. She's the mole. I repeat, Agent Abegglen is the mole—"

Hermione grabs her gun and fires, hitting Nat in the shoulder and cursing at herself for not taking a kill shot. Why prolong the inevitable? Why torture her?

Natalia falls the floor, gasping in pain. She clutches her shoulder and violently maneuvers herself up against the wall. "I've been hit! _Steve!"_

It's a scream for help. Natalia's not even using protocol. She's calling out her savior _by first name_ and Hermione knows S.T.R.I.K.E. will take their time getting to her, but Rogers won't. That'll work in Hermione's favor. She stands over Natalia, gun aimed. The woman stares up at her, and she's in pain, but her wounded shoulder is the furthest thing from her mind despite it being the thing keeping her from furthering engaging in hand-to-hand combat.

"You never gave up Mother," Natalia says in Russian. Her teeth are clenched. "Did you?"

Hermione stills. Something's wrong. Something's _off_. The mole. Natalia mentioned _the mole_. Like there'd been wind of one and everyone knew it but didn't know who.

Hermione can't read between the lines just yet. She hears the shield's near-silent whir before it hits her gun. The aim of Steve is so careful. It doesn't nick her hands nor trigger her fingers to fire the weapon. Her gun is knocked out of her grasp and out of reach, and Steve's grabbing her. His arms around her, he's trying to subdue her.

"What are you doing, Milas?" he hisses.

She doesn't know. Her mission was so clear. She had orders to kill both him and Nat, and she hesitated and not just because the op is personal. There's a missing piece. Nat knows something she doesn't and from the sounds of it, so does S.T.R.I.K.E.

This doesn't bode well with Hermione.

In the dark, she can still see the blue of Rogers' eyes and the cowl rimming them. Those eyes hold a mixture of disappointment and fear. He's so afraid to kill her. He doesn't want to. He doesn't think he can even though she's…

Hermione _scratches_ a landmine inside his brain and is blindsided by the explosion of information hurled at her. Her blood runs cold, and she nearly throws up. But like Natalia, her training kicks in as does her instinct to survive.

She needs to leave.

 _Run_.

She wriggles uselessly in Rogers arms before wrapping her legs around his waist and head-butting him. The cowl takes most of the blow, but it's enough for him to let go. She falls the floor, curling her spine and rolling backwards and then onto her haunches. She spares a glance at Natalia who's out-cold and losing blood fast.

"Let me go, Rogers. Take care of her," she says quietly. "There's a lot you don't know."

 _There's a lot I don't know,_ she internally adds.

He doesn't budge, hand wrapped around the handle of his gun strapped in his holster. "When I said we should spar, this wasn't what I pictured."

His shield is embedded in the wall three feet behind her. She moves quickly, yanking it out to take the blow of Rogers' gunfire before throwing the disk at him with all her might. The gunfire stops, so he can catch it. In her peripheral, she sees him catch his shield and stumble backwards, a perplexed frown on his lips.

The shock of her strength wares off fast, and he's on her tail. She comes to a metal staircase and wants to take it but can't. S.T.R.I.K.E. is down there, and they're not her friends anymore.

For a moment, she ponders the idea of Brock shooting her because could he really? After everything they've been through—even not being together anymore—could he really order one of his men to kill her?

Hermione doesn't take the stairs because she can't answer that question, and the only way to go is up. There's another staircase, this one of concrete steps leading to the roof. When she gets to the locked door, she breaks the barrier off it's hinges, not breaking her stride. There's a neighboring building, lower in structure. She leaps off the roof and onto that one, rolling as to cushion the blow. The moment she's on her feet, Rogers is there, too, and he's throwing that fucking shield at her again. She ducks, and he misses, but it bounces off a sturdy pipe, and she gets hit anyway.

Blood rushes painfully to the side of her thigh where the shield hit her, and she's almost laying flat. Rogers is stalking towards her, and she had tried shaking him for a reason. She didn't want to fight him. She didn't want to kill him. In the last five minutes, the game has changed. But if he tries to stop her from fleeing or even attempts to kill her, she will put him down.

"Let me go," she says, climbing to her feet.

"You betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D." He sets his jaw. "You betrayed Romanoff."

 _You betrayed me,_ he wants to say, but she can hear it loud and clear.

And he isn't wrong about any of those things. Still, he can't see the whole picture, and she's not going to show him. There's no time. It's not safe. Death and reapers lurk in the shadows. They call her name. There's not a person in the next building who thinks she'll live through the night.

"You were FSB this whole time," he accuses. He takes a step forward. "They experimented on you, didn't they?"

"No." She stomps on the rim of the shield, and she grabs ahold of it. " _They_ didn't."

He's not able to catch the shield this time, and it falls between the space of the two buildings, clattering to the ground. Hermione attacks him, first stomping his instep and then his opposite knee. A fist to his gut and then to his kidney. He's trying to dodge her hits, but his martial-art technique is behind. He's not sure what do with his legs, and Hermione had seven godawful years of figuring that out.

She uses his knee, hipbone, and shoulder as stepping tools to wrap her legs around his neck and twist him until his spine gives, and he's on his back. She puts as much pressure on his throat as she can, but he's waving and thrashing his hands and arms at her neck and face before diggings his fingers into her legs, bruising and rough. He's using all his arm strength to free himself, but Rogers has yet to learn firsthand the strength of women's thighs.

He chomps down desperately at the tender meat beneath her suit, and she releases him. He gasps for breath and coughs as she rolls off him. She cups the tear at her suit and feels wet warmth on her fingertips. His teeth tore through the mesh of the suit and scraped her. Not a tactic she pegged him for, but desperate times for desperate measures. She was going to crush his windpipe, after all.

"Ow," she mutters, giving him a half-hearted shove with her boot before crawling a few feet away from him and then coming to stance. There's an attached ladder she can slide down. From there, she can run for miles or she can steal a car. She rakes her fingers through her hair, the braid coming lose through the fight. The tips hit something lodged behind her ear, and it feels like…

A Widow's Bite.

"Sorry, kid," gasps out Rogers. He pulls Nat's Bite bracelet from a flap in his pants and presses the button.

* * *

She wakes up in the back of a squad van, shackled. She blinks several times and sees Brock in his gear sitting on the metal bench across from her. It's just them. The doors are open, and she can see tarmac. They're at an airport, and there's a quinjet in the distance.

She knows she won't be getting on it. Rogers and Nat are probably already gone. Back to D.C. for the debrief.

It'll be one hell of debrief, she imagines.

"Why?" she asks Brock. It comes out more like a choke.

"You know why." Brock's voice is quiet yet firm.

Does she?

"You chose Romanoff over HYDRA."

"That mission?" She snarls. "Was five years ago, and they're going to kill me for it _now!"_

"That mission," spits Brock, "was a slap in the face to your superiors. _Especially_ when Pierce found out what you did to him." He chuckles mirthlessly. "You think he wouldn't eventually?"

"I did it to clean up my mess. It was my fault for not killing Abid. He got ahold of Cruz-Gesenko—"

"You did it to save Romanoff. You risked exposing The Asset and HYDRA to save her—"

"I'm loyal to HYDRA. Brock," she interjects. " _Robert,_ you know me. All of me. Every part, and you know I would never betray HYDRA.."

He shakes his head. "That mission was your first of many red flags. You moved in with Romanoff out of choice. Sure, you gathered intel on a few of Fury's projects but nothing substantial. Couldn't even give us decent information about the Avengers Initiative project. You failed in almost every way when it came to Rogers."

"You have no sufficient evidence I—"

"You're compromised, _Hermione_." He leans forward. "And you know it. And you have been since the Red Room."

She swallows. Her true name echoes inside her skull like a mantra, stirring unhappy memories. "Then kill me."

He sighs, leaning his head back.

"That was _the mission_ , wasn't it?" she fires. "It was never my mission to kill Rogers and Romanoff. This was all just a setup. Killing two birds with one stone. Taking down an FSB unit and then getting rid of me. Making it look like I've been feeding them information behind the scenes, so no one in S.H.I.E.L.D would be none the wiser."

"You were supposed to kill Romanoff," reveals Brock. "That was true. But Rogers was supposed to be the one to take you down."

She shakes her head. "It should be you."

"Yeah, not happening."

Her question from before is answered. "I wouldn't want anyone else."

"God, Milas. Aren't you even going to fight or, shit, deny further that you betrayed HYDRA?"

"I tried running just now. It went well as you can see. But even if I had gotten away—"

Brock grabs the back of her head, crushing her mouth to his. It's a punishing kiss. He's angry at her disloyalty but most of all her stupidity. When he releases her, he tells her what's going to happen.

"Your cuffs. I'm not supposed to know you can break them. The rest of S.T.R.I.K.E. doesn't either. You're going to do that, beat me until I'm unconscious, ditch her fucking bracelet, and then you're going to run. _Really run,_ kid. And throw yourself into a hole where no one can find you."

"That's your plan—"

He backhands her, using all his strength. Her head snaps to the side and annoying bloom of warm pain spreads, across her cheek. Before she can recover, he does it again to her opposite cheek. And when he goes for the third time, she gets the gist. He's a sentimental sap, and he can't kill her, nor can he watch her die. Not after everything they've gone through together.

But it goes both ways. She can't just beat him…

His third blow lands even harder than the first two. "I was the one who told the Soldier to take that shot on Romanoff," Brock says. "Back in Odessa. Then I went home. Cooked dinner for a date who never showed and let you suck me off."

She breaks her cuffs.

* * *

Somehow.

 _Somehow_ , she makes it to Amsterdam, but she's got only a few hours because she'd been spotted in Zaandam, and she needs to make her next move. And she knows what she wants to do, but it's suicide. There's no way she'll make it out there alive, though it's been nagging her since the airport in Russia. After she left Brock bloody and regretful. He called her Hermione and not for the first time, yet now England calls her.

She never got closure. Not really. She accepted what happened and what her parents did, but closure and acceptance don't always go hand in hand. She needs to see them. Before she throws herself into that hole Brock mentioned, she needs to really put this behind her.

As she enters the internet café, she adjusts her ballcap and orders a coffee before sitting down in front of screen. She pulls up Google and types in in the search engine Daniel and Helena Granger Surrey England.

She is unprepared for the results.

* * *

 **Surrey**

Hermione sips at her tea, checking over her shoulder out of fear, habit, both? She lost HYDRA back in Berlin, but she can never be too careful.

A print out of an old newspaper rests beneath her saucer and biscuits. Obituaries of a couple from eighteen years ago. Her parents. Dead in a freak accident. Gas leak in the house of all things.

Across the street, Hermione's target leaves the pub. He's waving down a cab, and she bolts from the table. Sprinting in front of cars so she'll catch him in time. When he opens the back door of the taxi, she digs the muzzle of her pistol into the base of his spine.

"Care if I join you," she whispers into his ear, _"Officer Gillian?"_

He bristles, and she's able to coax him into the backseat. She snuggles right up to him, smile charming and sweet at the cabbie as she says the address. Her expression doesn't change when Officer Gillian stares at her. Stares at the face beneath the Yankee's baseball cap. He's trying to memorize her features, but her cap his low, and the hood of her raincoat his up. She's wearing glasses, and underneath that ballcap is a honey-blonde bob.

The gun is trained at his hip now, obscured by the sturdy fabric of their raincoats. With her opposite hand, Hermione squeezes Gillian's knee out of warning. Don't tip the driver off in anyway. She carves the muzzle deeper, and he stifles a whimper. He's already starting to sweat.

"I didn't want to spoil it," she says, thrusting her flawless English accent at him, "but I just can't contain it any longer, sweetheart. There's a surprise for you back at the house."

"…oh," he manages. Barely a squeak.

"And don't you worry yourself about how you're going to repay me." She rests her chin on his shoulder. His chin trembles. "You _deserve_ every bit of it."

They pull up to the address, and he's darting his eyes around the neighborhood. Quaint. Middle class. Quiet. _Familiar._ When he and Hermione climb out of the vehicle, he almost screams. She wedges her way into his mind and silences him. He touches at his throat, bewildered. Using the gun as motivation, she shoves him up the pavement to the door.

"Open it," she orders, dropping the accent.

"You don't have do this." He's allowed to speak now and touches the doorknob. "I have money if it's what you want—"

"Oh, I know you have money, Officer Gillian. You're practically sitting on a gold mine. Open the door."

She senses the cogs in his brain working. He's putting the puzzle pieces together but still doesn't have the complete picture. He's doing his best to figure it out, though.

"Do you recognize this place?" she asks.

"N-no," he stammers.

A terrible lie.

She pistol-whips him. He lets out a pained grunt, and she watches dispassionately as he falls to the floor. He rolls onto his back, staring up at her, frightened and horrified. Gun aimed at his chest, she lowers her hood and removes her cap. Next is the glasses and the wig. With a tug of a pin, her dark curls tumble down her shoulders.

The pain is forgotten. Blood drains from Gillian's face.

"Do you know who I am?" she asks.

"It's…" He shakes his head. "It's impossible."

She looks just like her mother, he thinks.

"You'd think so, right? But here I am, and you will tell me who bought your silence on the Grangers' case, or I will get it from you in other ways. Believe me." She shakes her head. "You don't want that. I won't be gentle, and it'll make a bullet feel like a tickle."

"You have to understand. They threatened me and my family."

"And who is _they?_ "

Hermione _knows_ , but she needs to hear it from him.

"I can't." Tears leak down his cheeks. "I still live in fear. _They_ swore to kill me if I told anyone."

"You'll die now if you don't." With her free hand, she flexes her fingers, using her abilities to carefully prod at sensitive brain tissue, evoking a skull-splitting migraine.

"S-Strucker! Oh, my God! Wha…" He vomits and gags and resides into a fit of sobs. She _slightly_ retracts from his mind. "That's the only name I was given! Please! Please don't kill me!"

Hermione silences his agony, repeatedly striking in the same spot in his brain until blood pours from his ears, nose, and eyes.

The rain pours, heavy and loud against the house. She stares at the unused gun in her hand and considers turning it on herself because _everything_ had been a lie. Pretty much her whole goddamned life, so what's the point anymore? She's ruined and past the point to start over. Strucker. He lied to her. He planted false memories in her. He made her believe her parents didn't want her. Wouldn't miss her because she wouldn't let go of them. She wouldn't yield, so he found a way in between The Chair and propaganda reels in that forsaken facility to make her.

He made her rotten. HYDRA made her rotten.

Hermione had begun this journey to the past as way to settle the past and completely come to terms with what her parents did when she was a child. She'd check on them and their well-being and then go to Greece. Broken and economically-collapsed Greece. She'd hide well there. For a while, at least and then on to South Africa. But her plan went wrong. She hadn't even considered her parents wouldn't be alive. Why wouldn't they be? They'd only be in their fifties, not even retirement age.

At that internet café in Amsterdam, she looked up Daniel and Helena Granger.

Not even three minutes later, she was printing off the obituary and researching more about the incident, even going so far as to hacking into old archives of the Surrey Police and obtaining names, coming across Officer Gillian who'd been over her parents' unfortunate incident. He declared it as such and was somehow able to avoid the two bodies receiving autopsies. They were laid to rest at Sutton Cemetery.

However, this was not his first dealing with the Grangers. He'd been over their daughter's missing person case. The notes on the case were exquisitely detailed until they weren't. Her parents were distraught at the news of their daughter disappearing from the institute. They hadn't seen her in while at the request of her doctor who stated she as a patient needed time away from them. Her doctor. A forgotten name popped up that had her seething.

Doctor Dalton Lawrence.

Who now lays dead in his cozy, three-bedroom flat in downtown London. When she broke into his flat and revealed herself to him, she saw a flash of fear and then acceptance. He knew he was a dead man. Acted like he'd been waiting for her show up the last twenty-three years and kill him.

Lawrence had been the first one to pay off Gillian. Strucker the second.

After the mention of Lawrence in Gillian's notes, his reports turn spotty. Vague. Even offhandedly mentioning that the parents might be involved in the child's disappearance but who's to really say? There's no proof. Hermione Granger likely ran away with her fellow peer Robert Ballies and got snatched up by traffickers. The case had gone cold.

Her parents hadn't liked that. They hired a private investigator Marta Ingles. Three weeks later, Ingles' mother died, and she had to leave for Dublin. She never returned, and Hermione's parents passed away because of an unfortunate gas leak in the house.

The deaths of Lawrence and Gillian mean nothing to her. They don't fill her chest will relief that her parents' have been avenged. They haven't. Strucker is alive. HYDRA, too. They took everything from her and her parents.

Hermione gives a lingering look at her gun. Not yet, she tells herself. Not yet.

* * *

Sutton Cemetery is within walking distance. The rain drenches her, but she doesn't care. She needs to see her parents. She's going to look at them as she calls Strucker. She'll promise him he'll burn. They all will. Him. Pierce. Malick. HYDRA is going to end. No child will be taken again by them to be warped and misused and shaped into a weapon.

Finally. _Finally_. She can see clearly. They were the enemy all along. They all have agendas, not to shape the world into something better, but to purge those who dare to. And she helped them for so long to get them as far as they had.

No more. No more.

Hermione sinks between the two gravestones and _breaks_ , her hands curling in the wet grass over her mother.

"Mommy. I'm so sorry."

Staring at the engraved cross on her mother's headstone, Hermione's never felt more unclean or unworthy. She's dirty. Filthy and brimming with sin. She's lied, stolen, killed. She's killed so many innocents. Her hands are gushing red, and she's digging them into her mom's sacred, hallowed earth. It's obscene.

Hermione pulls out her burner phone, her thumb clumsily pressing the numbers that'll connect her with Strucker. The line rings only once. He answers fast like he knows its her and has been waiting for her to contact him for the last thirty-six hours. She opens her mouth to curse him and HYDRA, but nothing comes out.

She changes her mind.

She won't give him the satisfaction or the opportunity to prepare for what's to come. She won't be there to see it, but that's okay. It really is. That bullet will taste like freedom when she turns the gun on herself.

She hangs up and dials the number Ross gave her back in Saudi Arabia, her opposite hand curiously reaching for the beautiful, shimmering wreath in front of her dad's headstone.

Her fingers touch it. Everything _shifts_ , and she's tumbling through the sky like she got shoved out of an airplane. The sky morphs into four solid walls, and her body hits a cobbled-stone floor. She scrambles to a sitting position and then crawls over to the closest wall, climbing to her feet. Her back rests against the barrier, her hand jumping to the gun in her pocket.

What the hell just happened?

To be Continued...

* * *

 **A/N: *cackles all evil-like and skips away* Sorry, not sorry!**

 **Oh, and uh, what do you guys think about an Erik Killmonger/Hermione Granger fic? Obviously completely separate from this one. Not offended if it's a no, but just curious on opinions and stuff.**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: I'm sorry for the delay. I wanted this chapter to be perfect. It's not quite there, but it'll do. Plus, I kept writing and erasing and trying to find new approaches and just tried to make it simple without getting too complicated. There will be room for that later.**

 **Okay, after reading this chapter, please don't get frustrated, my Bucky/Hermione shippers. You're time to shine will come. I promise. There's just a few things that need to be done first.**

 **Anyway, thank you readers, followers, and especially reviewers. Your words give me strength and motivation to write.**

 **Enjoy and tell me your thoughts!**

* * *

 **Chapter 24: Beating the Beaten**

The door to her hospital room slides open. Natasha glances at the intruder and then looks away, pointedly staring at the muted television on the wall.

"Hey," says Rogers. So softly she wants to choke him with her IV tubes. She doesn't want his softness. His sky-blue eyes and kicked-puppy expression. She doesn't want him to care. She doesn't want him dressed in his casual jeans and plaid shirt. Like he came here on his free time to visit her. She wants him dressed for the field. She can't handle one more person showing they fucking care about her on their free time. Pretending they fucking care.

"Has Clint seen you yet?" He sits down on the doctor's rolling chair. There are no visitor chairs. She doesn't want visitors. She told Fury that the moment she got admitted.

She shrugs her good shoulder. Yeah, he has, but she couldn't bare to speak to him which he thought was fine. He just stood next to her, snagging the remote and changing the channel to _Family Guy_. He didn't say anything. Not one word until the pain killers kicked in, and sleep hit her like train. She might've felt him kiss her forehead. Or it could've been the drugs.

"I guess Pepper tried to come and see you—"

"Rogers," she warns.

"I talked to Fury." It's like he's incapable of skipping a beat. "This isn't your fault. She isn't your fault. Fury knows that. Everyone knows that."

"Not my fault?" She grabs the TV remote and chucks it at the screen, cracking it. The move jostled her injured shoulder, and she hissed, glaring at Rogers. "I brought her in. She _lived_ with me for the last two years. I couldn't catch she was feeding secrets to Russia. It _is_ my fault."

"Nat—"

"Romanoff," she corrects.

He shakes his head and rolls closer to her. He points his finger at her. "Nat. You couldn't have known."

"But I did. I turned her over because I was selfish, Rogers. Not because I genuinely thought she could be rehabilitated." She bites her lip, hating herself for showing this much of herself to him. "Please just leave."

"Nat—"

"Now. I don't want you here."

"He can stay." Fury emerges from the hallway and closes the door behind him. "We've got to go over your next assignment."

"She hasn't even healed—" starts Rogers.

"This assignment won't start until the beginning of next year. In the meantime," he throws an apologetic expression at Natasha, "you're on leave. When you get back, it'll be you two and the Alpha S.T.R.I.K.E. team. You'll no longer be partnered with Agent Barton at all."

"On leave." She says it because it's all she heard. It's all that matters. She cocks her head at Rogers. "Everyone knows it's not my fault, huh?"

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, not saying anything but does glare at Fury's ear.

"It's fine," she mutters. "I got something I got to do, anyway."

Rogers frowns, but Fury gets her drift. He massages his bottom lip. "We got eyes all over. Still haven't found her. She did," he nods in consideration, "make a phone call from England to CIA's Everett Ross. Surrey, specifically. Kinda out of the way from the airport. It doesn't fit. You got anything on why she'd be there? Or, hell, I don't know. Call the CIA?"

She leans her head against the pillow and searching for an idea and coming up with nothing. "I don't know why she went there. I don't why she'd call Ross unless…she felt like she could work out a deal with _them_." Her brows furrow. "You know what's weird?"

"Everything about Agent Abegglen is weird," replies Fury. "And funny enough, her secret super strength isn't even at the top of the list."

"She didn't stay in Russia. She ran."

"The entire intelligence community of the United States is after her. Why wouldn't she run?" pitches Rogers.

"What Romanoff is saying, Cap, is that Russia isn't housing her. And we don't have eyes or ears in the FSB anymore to confirm or deny she's receiving help from them. Our spy in the embassy hasn't said anything about her asking for safety from any of the government official. Which supposedly, she had connections. In fact, she sprinted out of Eastern Europe and stopped to make a phone call forty-five minutes away from the academy."

"Maybe when I find her, I'll ask what the hell before shooting her in the face," Natasha comments.

"When you find her?" There goes Rogers again looking all worried. "If you're going to go run off and find her, you're calling m—" He clears his throat. "S.H.I.E.L.D."

She rests her eyes on Fury. Her shoulder throbs. "There's no bringing her in this time. No imprisonment. The next time I see her, I'm going to kill her."

When Steve Rogers gets back to his apartment, there's an envelope taped to the door. Written on the envelope, it says:

 _I'm not really sure what to do with these except give them to you. Abegglen asked for them a couple of months back. They're supposed to be a gift, I guess._

 _P.S. I'm confused, too._

 _-Everett Ross_

Steve pulls out two Yankee game tickets for the following month. Seats reserved for 18A and 19A.

* * *

Pierce loosens his tie, takes a drink from his glass, and sits down at the undercrowded conference table. On each side, he's got Malick and most importantly, he has Strucker.

"The officer I _indirectly_ paid off in the Grangers' case was found dead three days ago in their old house. The family that lives there now discovered him when they arrived home that evening. We had agents _assist_ in the investigation as well as arrange a quick autopsy and funeral. Abegglen was uncaringly sloppy in leaving the man there. We can cover up cause of death. Why he was _there_ to begin with?" He sighs. "More difficult, but it was taken care of."

Slamming his glass on the table, Pierce leans in towards Strucker. "I want to know where she is."

"The longer she's unaccounted for," begins Malick, "increases the likelihood of her coming forward about HYDRA."

"Maybe she still sympathizes," offers Strucker.

"If that were so, she would've stayed to face her punishment."

"We have many agents who would die for HYDRA, Malick." Pierce interlocks his fingers. "Very few of them would offer up their neck for the sake of chastisement. Pride. It's a killer."

"My honest opinion as someone who knows her fairly well. I've watched her grow and molded her into what she is. Was." Strucker raises a few of his fingers. "She's killed herself."

"As comforting as your fantasies are, until there's a body, we can't stop looking. We'll scour Africa and South and Central America. We'll put her on the CIA's and MI-6's most wanted list. We'll try for the top ten, but those assholes in the Middle East are competitive."

Pierce strokes his chin. "We haven't considered the _other_ possibility."

Strucker and Malick consider him, but it's Strucker who catches the drift. "How would that even be possible, Pierce?"

"She's a being of their nature, and we haven't exactly been keeping her under the radar since 9/11. What if she made a blip on theirs? Let's not forget our source in The Fridge."

"He's still alive?" Malick chuckles and salutes his glass. "Impressive. Is he mad as a hatter after thirteen years locked up?"

"He's… _tamed_." Strucker drums his fingers on the table. "And I may have an idea. Why not send the man home? For a little while. A year. If he scrounges up nothing of our little witch, he'll return and report. If he does, he'll bring her home if possible. Kill her immediately if not."

"There are too many factors that could go wrong," says Pierce. "I would never release the subject on such a low chance of success."

"Worse than Milas coughing up HYDRA secrets to any foreign intelligence agency willing to listen?" Strucker snorts.

"Almost." Pierce drains his glass. "Get me a detailed layout of this plan and the subject's history of compliance. You have six hours."

"I hope you know what you're doing," comments Malick, eyes swiveling back and forth between the men. "Both of you."

Strucker dips his chin and darts out of the office, phone to his ear. "Prepare my quinjet. We need to be en route to The Fridge as of _yesterday_. Prep Prisoner 73180. It's time for Mr. Tonks to go home."

* * *

Nott stubbed out his fag, only to ignite another. He typically doesn't chain smoke like this but given the circumstances, he's hoping his lungs will have mercy.

Hallelujah! Praise Salazar! The bloody portkey worked.

Maybe?

Risky chances in disguising portkey's as grave ornaments. There's a possibility an unlucky fellow could happen upon it by accident, but low and behold, there's a woman locked up in the room he and Soo-jin prepared long ago. The woman somewhat fits the description Soo-jin provided. The coloring is there. Brown hair and brown eyes, although Soo-jin mentioned how unattractive looking Hermione Granger had been.

Alas, the ugly duckling grew into a mighty fine swan.

Not that he relayed that to Soo-jin and not that he's certain this woman is the one they've searched years for. Plenty of brown haired, brown eyed bints in England.

Speaking of his ex-fiancé, she's waring a hole into his great-grandfather's rug.

"How was Sarsaparilla?"

"She's missed me. It's not right I'm the only one who takes her out for fresh air, you know."

"Enough of this. It's been three days. You need to go in there and verify it's her. We didn't fall in and out love and go near-broke in the process to have her rot in Dipper's old room."

"A part of me believed I'd never find her."

"If it's her."

"Of course it is! Who else would it be?"

He shrugs, playing off his anxiety quite spectacularly aside from another drag of his cigarette. "Some feckless Muggle who tripped over the portkey."

"Who fits the description of Hermione Granger?" She stops her pacing, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "Did you see an apple on her forearm?"

"Like a tattoo?"

"No, then." Her eyes roll.

"I didn't get a chance to linger. Neutralizing the room from most magic is one thing, but I'm not adept in Muggle defense or offense mechanisms. I was lucky to get out of there with my broken hand." He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, everything now healed.

"It's _her_. Ordinary Muggles don't know hand-to-hand combat."

"I'm not making the call until you identify her. Because if it's not, and I make that call to Potter and Clearwater—"

"We can say goodbye to steady paychecks."

"And showing our faces in public. We'll be jokes. Clearwater made it abundantly clear the story she'd run if this was all just a hoax." His exhales impatiently. "Face her in the next ten minutes. If you don't, I'll _Obliviate_ her and dump her in the middle of Muggle London. We've wasted enough time."

"I know, Theo, I do." She stops her pacing and sits down in the chair across from him. "It's just…I haven't been completely honest with you about everything."

Or almost anything, she muses. She studies his handsome face, absorbing every detail and imagining his jaw slack, chocolate brown eyes lifeless. Dead. She imagines him slumped on this very floor, and it sickens her. It's more than late to chastise herself for getting too involved, even to the point of having a ring on her finger once.

She loves him almost as much as she despises him.

When he's dead, she pictures herself weeping though she hasn't shed a tear since leaving Sokovia. Those were the times she allowed herself to be weak but once her new reality had set in, her skin thickened up again soon enough.

"Disappointed but not surprised," he clips.

"Hermione Granger and I didn't part on the best of terms."

"It's been nearly twenty years. You two were eleven. I doubt the first thing she's going to do when she sees you is kill you. You were her friend."

Oh, her delightful Theodore could be terribly naïve about things, but that's not his fault. He doesn't know what he doesn't know, and she can't tell him. And it's a wonder he hasn't seen through her at all. He's not stupid, and yes, she credits herself as a good actress. She's had to be to survive this world she got dragged into. Still, he doesn't wonder about the carefully woven lies she's fashioned herself concerning her faux Muggle childhood because…

Because at the end of the day, he's a Pureblood and the woman he's been fucking for the last five years? Her years from age one to eleven are unremarkable due to the fact that Muggles, for the most part, are unremarkable.

Unimportant.

And a number of other things not typically associated with positive adjectives.

No, she won't cry, Soo-jin decides. Because no matter how much Theo doesn't want to be like his father, he didn't stray far enough from the tree to accomplish it. He's still comfortably comfortable underneath the shade of the poisonous branches that is his daddy's wretched racism. Would Theo still care for her so much if she told him the truth? That yes, she's a Half-blood, but her mother was a Squib whore and her biological father is vice president of Wizarding France.

"You're right." Soo-jin gets up from the chair, standing tall. "It has been twenty years." Horrible and torturous. "I've waited for my friend long enough."

* * *

On her cot more fit for a child, Hermione sits cross-legged in her underwear and camisole. Her clothes are folded not too far away from the tray of dishes. She _might_ be up to having them washed if the option is still open. She had to take them off. There's hardly an circulation in the room, and she reckons she must be in a multi-leveled property because the air is warm.

There's music in her head. It can happen sometimes when she's by herself for too long. Melodies will plague her mind, and now is no different. She's passed the point of thinking and overthinking how she got here and who that man was—that seemed both terrified and skeptical at the same time—and how he trudged through the door not long after she got here.

He said hello, and she tried to kill him

He was impressively quick in escaping.

And speaking of the door he came through.

It comes and goes. Kind of like the food trays.

Every two hours, the door appears, and it leads to a small bathroom with no mirrors or cupboards or windows, only a lonesome porcelain tub and toilet. Somehow that man went through there and escaped.

Maybe down the drain.

She chuckles, the music wafting in her head, she begins to sway. _Someday My Prince Will Come_ is embarrassingly loud in her head. She'd been thumbing her scar, thinking of her parents and that staticky nightdress, and how her father called her his little princess all the time.

" _Will I marry a prince, Daddy?"_ she asked once.

He kissed her forehead and then her cheek, tucking her into bed. _"You accept nothing less, Button."_

" _Will he save me?"_

" _I pray you never have to be saved from anything."_ He looked at the open door nervously and then leaned down closer to her. _"Don't tell your mother I said this. She thinks you're too young, but she and I won't always be around to protect you. You'll grow up and sometimes be alone. Not now but someday, you'll have to learn to save yourself."_ He pinched her chin. _"Until then, the monsters in your closet and under the bed are my bitches."_

" _Daddy!"_ She gasped.

" _I'll go put a few pence in the jar."_

" _That deserves at least a note."_

" _You're so like your mum. Goodnight, princess."_

"If we only knew what would be coming, Dad," she whispers aloud.

Memories of the times she'd gotten her ass saved resurface, and Natalia's there. Even Brock. She misses them both for different reason. Or maybe the same. She's not sure. There are mixed feelings she has towards Brock right now. He ordered The Asset to pull the trigger on Nat.

The Soldier's face hits her, and her turkey sandwich she ate an hour ago rallies to make a comeback.

Oh, God, she'd forgotten about him. He's still under HYDRA's control, and she'd promised herself five years ago she'd kill him. Put him out of his misery. He saved her, and she couldn't pay the same respect.

More likely the man buried deep within revived her after what Amdaal did. With the Soldier being out of cryophase too long, Sargent Barnes started pawing at the wheel. The mission was complete, but what about the woman who brought him to Kabul in the first place?

It certainly had been mostly Barnes who forced oxygen into her lungs and then held her gently as she recovered. It was like a scene from the movies, and she weakly let herself get lost in the moment. A trained, cold-blooded assassin broke protocol to come save _her_ , so she kissed him.

And then scrambled away from him and threw herself into Brock's arms, upset with herself for kissing him and then disgusted for not taking the chance to slit his throat. The Soldier had knife right there strapped to his boot. Quick and efficient. He could've been free, but she enslaved him longer with a soft peck of her lips.

Hermione's unsure what the future has in store. She may die soon. Who's to say? Certainly not the strange man who's hand she broke. He hasn't been back since. If she lives, though, and manages to get away from wherever she is, she'll free Barnes as HYDRA crumbles to dust. Then she'll confront Natalia with an apology and open arms.

And if Hermione knows Nat—and she does—her best friend and former lover will shoot her in the face regardless of said apology.

Then she can finally be free, too.

Look how bold she's being surrounded by these enclosed and cobbled walls that she fancies she'll be free one day. Because even if she dies in this room, she won't be free. When she goes on her terms, then her leash will finally be removed.

It's a strange thing, but she can feel the door materialize without even looking. Not so much as hair standing on end at the back of her neck but a tingling in her blood. A familiar energy that had been near-muted by the bracelet.

Interesting. Two hours hasn't passed just yet.

Hermione decides she's not going to attack the man right away. She'll let him explain himself and the reason of her capture and then hurt him bad enough, he'll be begging to get rid of her. And unfortunately, not in the way she'd prefer. She'd love to slither her powers up through his nostrils and rat-a-tat-tat on his prefrontal cortex, but her powers have ceased completely. Even her strength is somewhat diminished, and it's like she can feel _something_ raking at her veins, pressing down at her core. Not even the bracelet quite made her feel this way. It's like she could feel power, and it's strangling her own.

"I was always a _Sing Sweet Nightingale_ girl myself. Not that I had or even have much exposure to Disney films."

A woman.

Not the man.

Still, Hermione is indifferent. She continues to hum and sway, mulling over the woman's Ukrainian lilt with a peculiar polishing of Norwegian. The woman will have dark blonde hair green eyes, almost like Nat's but with a hint of blue. She'll be tall with a trim waist and athletic shoulders. Her attire will be practical aside from the pink goulashes on her feet.

"It's near tea time."

The sound of a tray being set on the tiny, bolted down table, reaches Hermione's ears.

"I think you're dying for a cup of chamomile."

That almost makes Hermione stop humming because, damn it, that sounds amazing.

"And a pile of chocolate biscuits."

The rushed tinkling of liquid hits the teacup and soon, the cup is appearing in Hermione's peripheral. The hand attached is tiny. Tinier than her own and even Natalia's. The nails aren't too long and are painted black. Hermione wouldn't have guessed, and now she's drawing up another picture.

She takes the cup and goes back to staring at her wall.

The woman will be average height with orangey-red hair. Her eyes are hazel, and her clothes are an elegant shade of grey. Pristine, white ballet flats on her feet.

"You were so eager to attack my companion. I'm pleased and grateful you haven't dealt me the same sentiment."

Thumbing the rim of her teacup—which must be part of an expensive china set—Hermione doesn't even bother to believe there's poison in the cup. If they wanted her dead, they could've done it already by poisoning the food.

"Where are you from?" she asks the woman.

There's a pause and then a chuckle. "Funny, that's your first question. I'd think you'd be curious on how you got here. Travelling that way is unpleasant." Her throat clears. "You're American. My companion didn't even mention it."

"I didn't speak to him, and you know more about me than you want me to think. You know I'm not _American_. Whatever the hell that thing was, you put it on my father's grave knowing I'd touch it sooner or later."

"I don't… _didn't_ expect to have your back to me and for a moment, I thought I'd play, but we're not children anymore, Hermione. Shove away your cowardice you're masking for indifference and face me."

Calmly, she takes a drink of her tea and slowly turns around to face a five-foot-nothing Asian woman of orient descent. Her black hair is long and tied up in a ponytail. Her eyes are dark, both widely set and slanted. She's dressed like she got done horseback-riding in the countryside. There's even traces of hay and dirt smudged on her trousers and boots.

Hermione drains the rest of her tea, attempting to remain coolheaded. "You will not call me, Hermione. Understand?"

"What do they call you now then? Surely not 17, still." 54 touches her chest. "Soo-jin."

Darting her eyes around the room like it's the first time she's seen it, processing information. "You weren't even on the list of people who I considered responsible for this."

"You probably thought I was dead."

"I had no reason to think otherwise." No longer feeling safe enough to lounge on the cot, Hermione stands.

54's gaze glides over her the exposed skin of her legs and arms, a wave of sentiment washing over her features. "You've grown up beautifully, but I see the years have been unkind in other ways." The corner of her mouth quirks. "And to think I wanted it to be me when either way was unfortunate."

"You look _mighty_ unfortunate, 54," hisses Hermione. "What do you want? Revenge? Believe me if I could go back—"

The woman laughs. "Oh, 17, you would have not liked being in my shoes. You would've had it worse than I did, and who's to say I would've made it out of the Red Room alive or even be worthy enough for Strucker's _gift_? We were put on the pathways we were, and there's no changing that. But I worked hard at getting them to cross. I was always too late by a few days or even hours. I eventually had to come up with a trick that would make you come to me. Sooner or later, I figured you'd remember who you were—you always did when we were kids—and you'd come looking for your parents."

"None of this makes sense. Not just the grave wreath and this room and the door. If this wasn't about revenge, then _why?"_

"Isn't it obvious?" 54 shuffles closer, offering both of her hands in a seemingly friendly gesture. "To save and hide you from HYDRA."

Hermione doesn't have to read the woman's mind to know that's a lie.

To be Continued...


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Here we are! It's Chapter 25! Read and review! Tell me your thoughts! Thanks and enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 25: Seventeen Again**

Even locked away for seventy-two hours, Hermione believed her days of espionage and everything it entailed are far from over. Being ripped from her parents' graves and shoved into a twelve by twelve room where she was decidedly not killed or even tortured right away revealed something about her captors.

They need her.

Hermione wouldn't have guessed it was 54 behind her captivity and why the woman needs her has yet to be seen. And not in a million years would Hermione believe 54 spent her adult life tracking her down to save her from HYDRA. So instead of calling the woman out on her bullshit, Hermione's Red Room training kicks into overdrive. Stay calm. Gather intel. Enemies will reveal their truth sooner or later.

"I don't need hiding from HYDRA. I don't need to be saved. The reveal they talked about when we were kids. It's going to happen. I'm going to watch it happen. It's everything you and I ever dreamed of—"

54 snorts. "HYDRA is doomed, 17, and you can stop pretending you give a shit. You know they killed your parents. It's why you were there at the cemetery, wasn't it? Because you found out the truth."

Hermione doesn't rise to the bait. "HYDRA couldn't possibly flounder."

The woman shrugs. "Organizations like that are destined for failure. Their base is made of greed and power. A brittle and suicidal combination. The empire will fall in on itself, and I see that now because I'm not a fucking stupid eleven-year-old anymore."

"If you're not a believer anymore." Hermione gets in 54's face. "If you are a traitor and forsake everything HYDRA gave us, then why not saying anything?"

54 presses a hand to Hermione's sternum, and Hermione fights the urge to take her wrist and use it as leverage to break her arm. It's an instinctual move rather than one out of anger, so Hermione keeps her cool.

"I have a bubble. Stay out of it."

Hermione doesn't move.

"I was fourteen years old when I came to the realization of what HYDRA really was, and I. Told. Everybody." 54 laughs, unhinged. "And here we are. HYDRA is still a thing."

"Nobody believed you."

"Why would they? I was a child. Barely considered Half-Bl…" The woman lets out a frustrated sigh. "We'll get to that a little later."

"Someone would have had to—"

"You don't understand, 17. You don't understand what this world is like."

"This world," she repeats.

"You don't even have the slightest inkling." 54 almost appears emotional when she says that. Eyes glassy and features somber. Her eyes wander around the room, her lips pressing together thinly. "Apologies for the smallness of the room. It was a precaution, but I think you deserve an upgrade. And a more informative explanation. Follow me."

54 puts her hand on the doorknob and throws it open, revealing not a bathroom but a rickety wooden walkway and railing.

"What the hell?" Hermione whispers.

"Would you like to dress first?" 54 gestures to her folded clothes on the floor.

The air coming from the outside the door is slightly cooler than the room and smells of dust and droppings. "Do you plan on parading me in front of an audience?"

The corner of 54's mouth twitches, and she chuckles. "In a way."

Hermione arches a brow and goes for her clothes. Once dressed, she follows 54 out of the room, the warmth and smell more pungent. They walk across the rickety wooden walkway of what appears to be a spacious attic area of a large estate.

Leaving the room, the suffocating sensation she felt before disappears, and it's like having a bottle of cold water doused on her in the middle of a desert. Gingerly, she zeroes in at the back of 54's head who stops and lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Now, now," she says, her arms making a movement like she shoved her hand into the breast of her vest.

Hermione's hits a blockade so thick and sturdy, it almost hurts. She retracts, and 54 continues marching across the walkway.

"You blocked me," she can't help but say it.

"I take it that doesn't happen often."

"There was a boy who was sort of able…"

"In Kabul," says 54 knowingly, and Hermione wants to throw her off the walkway for it. "An Obscura. We found him with a bullet in his head. Unfortunate."

"We?" That is not her only question. Far from it.

"No matter. Lookout for the droppings," says 54.

Looking up, it's impossible not to gawk. There are at least thirty owls high above them.

"My ex-fiancé breeds them." 54 whistles, the sound sharp and abrupt. One of them, a Eurasian Eagle owl dives down from its perch and swoops to 54's shoulder, staying there contently. The woman removes a pouch from her vest and takes out a square piece of meat, feeding it to the owl and stroking her feathers after. "Lilith's mine. Good money in owl-breeding. Saved our arses, Theo and I. Especially now with the baby boomers going off to school."

Grave ornaments that teleport. A room with no door sometimes and magically appearing food. 54. We? Obscura. Owls. Ex-fiancé. Baby boomers. Information making no sense to Hermione. Still she must treat this situation like she's in the field. Gathering intel that are puzzle pieces key to her survival because Hermione's knows one thing. 54 may not want her dead right now, but it's only a matter of time she will.

They walk down a flight of stairs, each plank of wood groaning under their weight until their feet land on concrete steps which circle downwards around the circumference of the tower. The stairs lead them to a door and from there to a corridor starkly different than the attic.

Polished flooring and framed portraits rimmed with silver and gold. The hallway leads a lookout railing and when they passed it, Hermione looked down and saw a library. Her legs slowed, catching the whiff of paper and ink. There's a table in the middle of the area, on it a stack of old books.

"We'll be coming back here later," promises 54. "But let's get you comfortable first. Don't mind the paintings. I silenced them a long time ago."

"The paintings." Hermione then comes to a full stop and really _look_ at the portraits. In her peripheral, they had appeared to be old but well-preserved paintings but holy shit. How could she have missed the movement? Many of the people in the portraits were doing one thing. They were pointing in 54's direction and shaking their heads and mouthing words.

 _Whore_.

 _Filth._

 _Nasty._

 _Disgusting._

… _impure…?_

The looks they give Hermione aren't better when they see her, too. Their eyes slide up and down her form, noses wrinkled, and lips curled.

 _Mudblood_ , one of them mouths to the other occupant in the portrait. The other nods.

"The paintings." Hermione clears her throat and rushes after 54. "What kind of screens—"

"You can clearly see the ridges of the canvases and whirl textures of the paint." 54 glances over her shoulder. "Very few things here are like the world you know it to be. Paintings move. Doors come and go. You can't read my mind."

"And where is exactly is _here_?"

"You're still in England. But way, _way_ off the beaten path."

"And if I want to leave? If I don't want to be hidden from HYDRA?"

"I assume your rough compliance to be your training. You're sussing out the situation, and I don't think an ounce less of you for it. It's smart of you to be cautious but not so blatantly distrusting. There's no need for the charade. If you were really itching to get back to HYDRA, you would've taken advantage of my back being turned to you the whole way out of that room."

"Let me be clearer. If I want to leave, how hard would you make it for me?"

54 takes an old-fashioned brass key out of her pocket and inserts it into a door. The door unlocks, and she opens it. "I've made it impossible for you to leave the estate right now. You're in no condition to be happening across the neighbors, and they're not equipped to deal with you." She trudges passed the threshold, gesturing to the large canopy bed. "This is yours. Not far from the library which you and I will spend a lot of time in for the next while."

"I'm _going_ to leave."

54 says nothing, just goes over to the bed and starts fluffing pillow. "17, do you remember the very first time you made something out of the ordinary happen? Don't feel obligated to answer, but I remember my first time. It had felt familiar, and I had forgotten why. When I attacked you when we were kids, you fought back by invading my mind. I remembered things I thought I had forgotten."

"I made you remember your mother's death."

"And the face of my father." 54 sets the pillow down. "Who killed her."

"I would think it'd be him you'd want to track down."

"He wasn't hard to find. You probably think I killed him which I didn't."

"But you want to."

"Not for the reason you may think. What else do you remember in that memory?"

Everything. Hermione remembers every single detail about it because the few moments provided knowledge on what she herself was capable of. "Teleportation," she said. "You and you father did that. Can you do it by yourself now?"

54 nods. "I suspect, given the _gift_ Strucker gave you, you can, too. I don't suppose you'll tell me how he did it?"

"He didn't give me anything."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were telling the truth." 54 throws her an endeared smile. "But I do. You couldn't cause the chaos that you did without a little extra something. You can have that secret. For now. I see I'll have to earn your trust first." She gestures to the open door. "You're free to roam as much of the estate the wards will allow. Don't go below the main floor. It'll let you in but won't let you go."

Hermione frowns.

"Just _don't_. I had to learn that the hard way. This property is not our friend. We make one wrong step, and it sees us as an infection which must be cleansed by any means necessary. I've _childproofed_ as much as I could, but the disgusting foundation the house was built on—"

"Are you hearing yourself—"

"I'm. Serious. You'll understand soon. In the meantime, stretch your legs. Have a nap. Take a shower. Tomorrow morning you're going to have a visitor who'll help with the transition. He'll take you out to get some clothes and other miscellaneous personal items you may require for your stay. And whatever and whoever you see when you two are out and about, don't gawk. It's rude, and these people are either easily offended or too dull to understand how freaky they come across. Another thing. Don't kill anyone."

"Don't kill any…" Hermione makes a face. "Do you think I just go around casually fileting people?"

"You're likely going to meet unkind people. If anyone insults you, just let Mr. Potter deal with it. Don't be giving anyone strokes because you think you can get away with it. You won't here." 54 darts to the door. "Dinner will be brought to you at seven. Typically, Theo and I do the polite thing and dine with our guests, but we'll be away. You'll have breakfast with us in the morning. There's a nightdress in the closet that should fit you well enough. Leave your clothes folded outside of the room, and they'll be washed and pressed for tomorrow. If you happen to see _the help_ , be nice and don't freak out."

"If you point me to the kitchen and laundry room, I can cook and wash my clothes for myself—"

"Under no circumstance will you say that to them." 54's cheeks pink, and she ducks her head in embarrassment. "I learned that the hard way, too. Sometimes I do think we really are uncultured swine."

With that said, 54 leaves, closing the door behind, and yet there's no finality to the sound. The lock doesn't slide into place. Hermione's really free to come and go from the room and staring at it, she wonders what she's gotten into. What kind of weird-ass cult shit 54 has found herself in, to be more precise? And what kind of drugs are they taking?

It's entirely possible Hermione's food had been drugged, too, though it's not working because of the serum.

 _Treat this as job. Remember your training. Get the intel and survival is key. 54 has said a lot, even though nothing makes sense._

Finding the bathroom, almost smiling at the separated shower stall and bathtub, she removes her clothes and studies the latter. Not that she wants a bath right now, but the working mechanisms are different. There's a spout for water, and then several smaller spouts alongside it. Embedded into the polished tile against the tub has a series of bulbous tubes filled with different colored liquids.

How fancy.

This bathroom has a mirror, and she pays her reflection no mind. It's not terribly pretty right now. Her face has taken on an oily sheen, and her hair is wild and frizzing.

"I suggest a mild exfoliating potion and the Tress-Taming-Tulip serum," says her naked reflection who then studies the nails of her right hand with pursed lips. "And then a hair removal cream instead of using a razor since you haven't shaved your legs in over a week. Less risk of ingrown hairs."

…

…

…

 _Slowly_ , Hermione backs away from the mirror.

* * *

Not looking up from his _Afternoon Prophet_ , Theo asks, "So it's her."

"I've set her up in the guest bedroom you suggested."

"And did you warn her about wandering?"

"Yes."

"How's her temperament _now_?"

"As I expected. Her training has instilled her to remain calm and gather information. She's playing the forced houseguest because she thinks I have an agenda outside of saving her." Soo-jin smiles sadly. "Not that I blame her. In the world she knows, everyone's got secrets and playing their own game."

"Mmmhmm." Nott turns a page. "Did you tell her this world isn't so different."

"I don't know what you mean by that," she clips. "But even trying to further explain _this_ world and _that_ world to her right now is out of the question. She'll understand more tomorrow which means we've got to pay Potter a visit as soon as possible."

"I'll send an owl."

"He'll take us more seriously if we're both there. Hit up the Floo and check if he's home."

With a groan and an exaggerated eyeroll, Theo closes the paper and sets it aside before whirling around in his chair and grabbing a bit of powder from its holder and throwing it in the hearth.

"Oi, Potter. Are you home?"

"Master is having tea with company," answers Kreacher.

"It's important." Theo quills down a note on a piece of paper and passes it through the green flames. "Give this to him."

Not five minutes later…

"Nott and Soo-jin! Get your arses over here now!" Potter bellows through the fireplace.

Nott regards his ex-fiancé with a frown. "Since when is he on a first name basis with you?"

"We have lunch meetings together."

"Uh huh."

Soo-jin rolls her eyes. "It's nothing serious, and you don't get to be jealous. We're not together anymore."

"We're not getting married, Soo-jin, but you still live here."

"We don't share a room anymore, and I remember with great detail how you said it was over. Those were the words you said which means we're not really together anymore."

"We still fuck."

"I can here you two!"

"He's my boss, woman," hisses Nott under his breath.

"And the bloody Chosen One," she fires back, stomping around his desk to get to the fireplace. "If you're so upset about it, I'll stop seeing him."

"If I'm so ups—" He practically growls out, "Bloody hell, if only I was so upset. We're talking about this later."

"Thank God!" Potter yells.

Soo-jin and Theo pass through the Floo, and there's Harry Potter standing in the middle of the room arms crossed behind himself. His glasses reflect the light from the small chandelier above him. The change from boy to man still astounds Soo-jin who should be used to it by now. He resembles little from the fourteen-year-old boy she first saw back at Hogwarts during the year Tri-Wizard Tournament. Wild, untamed hair. Uncomfortable in his skin and school robes, yet still confident enough to come across as an egotistical, judgmental jerk. He took quite a humbling that year and never really recovered the popularity with his classmates he once held.

How could he, given everything that had happened and would happen?

"You two," Potter pauses for dramatics, "better not be lying."

"We're not, Harry," she says. "The wreath on her father's grave worked."

"You're sure it's our lost witch."

"I've identified her."

"Have you contacted Clearwater yet?"

"No."

"Wait on that. I want time with her before going public."

"I've already told her she'd be going on an outing with you tomorrow."

"Have you?" Potter arches a brow. "It's too soon."

"She's not a fragile little flower who's going to faint at the sight of a goblin," Soo-jin comments. Her head cocks to the side. "I'll warn you about that pretty fairy face of hers. Don't let it fool you."

"Fool me." Potter snickers. "You think I've forgotten what she did in the Middle East. _Both_ times." His features darken. "Weston caught wind of a magically-related death in Surrey. A former police officer found dead in that old Granger house. I believe this man was in your reports, Nott. When you approached me about this…" He waves his hand. " _Thing_ you two came up with _._ He was over the missing girl case and then her parents' freak accident. _"_

"So she offed a man who helped in the murdering of her parents?" Nott remarked. "I figure you can sympathize, mate."

"She turned the man's brain into mashed potatoes."

"You've would've done the same to Voldemort if you could've made him stand still long enough."

Potter dips his chin and starts to pace. "You got me there, Nott. Tell me, though. How's she taking everything so far? Have you at least told her what she is?"

Soo-jin shakes her head. "I haven't outright told her she's a witch. She already thinks I'm insane and on the express ride to join me given mysterious disappearing doors and appearing meal trays. Another warning. Most of the magic she yields is dark, and we already know her power level."

"She'll splinter a wand," says Nott, stroking his chin.

"She's a long way from getting a wand," says Potter.

"She doesn't need a wand _at all_. She can Disapparate without one which means she has no limits. For God's sake, she could probably figure out how to fly without a broom if she believed she could."

Potter's already fair skin pales. "Are you still set on schooling her, Soo-jin?"

"She's a witch and deserves the education of one. And what do you think I'm going to teach her? How to summon Dementors?"

"Durmstrang is notorious for teaching the Dark Arts," Nott pitches.

"That woman could probably kill a person by blowing a kiss, and you worry I'm going to teach her how to _hurt_ people."

"Maybe we could bring someone else in," suggests Potter. He's stroking his chin now, too. "An actual teacher."

"You're not thinking Snape, are you?" Nott cackles. "Can you imagine his face when you tell him about this woman?"

"You'll go for a former Death Eater but 'fuck no' to a Durmstrang graduate. You're a judgmental asshole, Potter. Just like you were as a kid."

"Calm down, love," Nott tries to soothe. "He might have a point in bringing an actual teacher. I don't doubt your skills, but you still have work and so do I. Snape's retired."

"I wasn't even considering Snape. Jesus Christ." Potter runs a hand through his hair, and he might as well be fourteen years old again. "I was thinking Remus."

"Come now!" It's Nott's turn to lament. "He's got _one_ year of experience for DADA. What's he going to teach her? How to safely pet a grindylow? Or put a Boggart in front of her and see what kind of monster the monster is of afraid of?"

Soo-jin's _mildly_ impressed Nott didn't go for the easy target and bring up Remus Lupin's lycanthropy.

"Plus, he's a fucking werewolf."

Ah, there it is.

"I vote Lupin," she says. "But I will teach her on my free evenings and weekends."

"I vote Snape if he's up for it. He's not a bleeding heart. He'll put her down if necessary."

"She's not a rabid dog, Theodore."

"No, but you want one to teach her."

"Please do remind me why we'll never get married."

"We'll be here at Potter's until the turn of the century then."

"God, no, please," mutters Potter who rolls his eyes. "I'm discarding both your votes, _children_. After spending time with her tomorrow, I'll decide what's the best approach to properly integrate her into the community. Need I remind you, if I feel the best approach is Azkaban…"

Soo-jin flinches. "She was under their control, Harry. Hardly any different than the Imperius Curse."

"It wasn't just Muggle terrorists or sympathizers she killed. If civilians got in her way, she showed no mercy, not even to children. If I didn't have this…" Harry strokes jawline, looking at the floor in daze. "Feeling she was cheated. Sentiment, I guess Her childhood home wasn't more than ten miles from my aunt's house. She would've gone to Hogwarts. She _should have_ gone, and I'll give her this chance to become what she was supposed to."

"She thought she was doing good," offers Soo-jin.

"She hasn't a moral compass. I figured as much."

"As a son of a Death Eater, Potter, I'm going to point out that's an obscenely oversimplified accusation."

"Theo's right, Harry."

"Am I?" The man giggles sarcastically. "Want to run that by me again, sweetheart?"

She brushes him off and takes a step towards Harry. "The girl's conscience was stripped from her. It wasn't her place nor her concern to question what was right or wrong. Her purpose was to serve and strengthen her master. By any means necessary. With her showing up through that portkey shows promise she's has snipped the puppeteer's strings from herself. The hard part is over."

Potter chuckles. "She's been deprived of her rights as a witch and even as a functional human being for twenty years. The hard part is just starting."

* * *

The house, Hermione concludes, is weird. Paintings move, and her reflection gives advice. Food magically appears, even by request. Last night, she sat on the bed and asked her surroundings for a glass water. With a gentle pop, on her bedside table, a glass of chilled water appeared.

With the morning sun hitting the stained glass, Hermione has yet to get out of bed. She maybe got a few hours of sleep altogether. Soo-jin's possible motive keeping Hermione alert. For now, Hermione is somewhat certain Soo-jin has no immediate plans to kill her, but the playing along until the woman shows her hand makes her anxious. Hermione used to be like Natalia in the sense she could patiently string anybody along for an unlimited amount of time, milking them for all their worth.

The last few years, Hermione's been spoiled in the sense she's been allowed to use her powers to interrogate. Even now with her bracelet off, she can't read Soo-jin. Maybe she'll try again but slamming into that wall had _hurt_. Like driving banging a metal rod on an iron pipe. It left her ears ringing.

At the foot of the bed are her clothes, washed and pressed, and there's a note on top of her shirt from 54 inviting her for breakfast. On the back of the note is a map and a warning not to tread anywhere but the pathway. Hermione quirks her lips and remembers 54 believes the house is biased or something. She can accept conversational reflections and moving paintings but an overall haunted house?

Monsters and magic, Natalia would say. And maybe she'd be right.

Hermione hops of the bed, thinking back on giant green men, gods from other realms, Loki and that scepter—which HYDRA has, damn it—the alien invasion. She thinks of herself and 54 and the abilities they both have and share. She thinks of that boy in Kabul she had to kill and then pauses because maybe she's figured _some_ of it out. Certainly not all. 54 wants to her know there are _others_.

Dressing quickly and twisting her hair up into a bun, she takes the map and navigates the house, going down stairs and passing the library, a ballroom, drawing room, and a dining hall. On the way, she does her best not to linger on the sneering paintings and finally comes to a Victorian tearoom. 54 is by the table, hunched down and speaking to…

Monsters and magic, she hears Natalia say.

In front of 54 is a tiny, gnarled looking creature with skinny limbs and flopping ears, the color of warm ash. The thing is donned in teeny butler garb, and its eyes are bulbous and nose like a grape tomato. The thing is both hideous and endearing, the latter probably because the small stature. No bigger than a four-year-old.

"It's rude to stare, 17," says 54. "This is Lilo, a house elf. He's been taking care of you. Washing your clothes and arranging your food platters. Lilo, this 17. She'll be staying with Master and I for a while."

Aliens. Hermione reminds herself she's seen aliens and wriggling spaceships. Elves are okay to acknowledge, too. Hermione can make room for it.

Maybe?

Crouching down, Hermione offers her hand to him. "It's very nice to meet you Lilo."

The creature takes her hand, and the texture of its unnervingly clammy skin makes her insides shudder. Like old, saggy skin on a toddler.

"Lilo is very pleased to make Miss 17's acquaintance," he speaks. The pitch is high and soft. "How does Miss 17 take her morning tea?"

Caught off guard by the elf's use of the third person, Hermione stutters out, "I-I prefer coffee in the mornings."

"Cream and sugar?"

"Black is fine."

The elf lets go of her hand, bows so deeply, Hermione's surprised he doesn't topple over and then, and then he disappears with a pop. The sudden disappearance nearly makes _her_ fall over, so she stands straight up and frowns.

"And that's just the beginning," says a man.

Hermione turns around to see two men entering the tearoom. One of them wears glasses and has jet-black hair, and he's moving fast towards her, hand stretched out.

"Harry Potter. You have no idea how good it is to finally meet you, Hermione."

To Be Continued...


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: It's here! Chapter 26 is finally here! Wahoo!**

 **Thank you, readers and reviewers! I'm especially grateful for your support and patience. Shout out to RayssaUchiha for your encouragements! You keep me on track!**

 **I do hope you enjoy the chapter. I hope it's worth the wait. :)**

* * *

 **Chapter 26: Trust No One**

Hermione resists stepping back or looking at the man's offered hand. A few awkward moments tick by, and she turns around to sit at the table, unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap. A cup of coffee pops up beside her plate, and she flinches. Unable to do much else but let out a little air, whether it be called a sigh or a freaked-out chuckle, she picks up the cup and sniffs it before taking a sip.

It's good.

It's fine.

Count to ten and then backwards.

"I don't answer by that name," she finally says

"Is it all right if he calls you 17?" asks Soo-jin, sitting down beside Hermione.

"I'm not calling you a bloody number, for God's sake," mutters Potter. He sits down on the other side of Hermione. "Your parents gave you a name—"

"Mr. Potter." Steaming piles of food such as eggs, sausage, toast, beans, and fruit begin to populate the surface of the table. Right. Okay. Fine. "If you insist on calling me anything, I want 17."

"You know?" He scoots closer to her, resting his head in his hand. He appears to be studying her. "I was a kid when I found out about the power of a name. Or even a title. When you tell me you wish to be called 17, you're telling me a lot of things."

"Harry," warns Soo-jin.

Hermione slides an egg onto her plate and butters her toast.

"I've been in criminal justice for the last ten years. A rookie would believe you still brainwashed. You forgo returning to your true name in favor for the first one you were given after you were taken from home. But I don't see it that way. The truth is, you feel unworthy. You're not. Doesn't matter what kind of wrongs or sins you've committed. You're still Hermione Granger and always will be."

Hermione bites her toast and downs her coffee which is instantly refilled. Now that she can get behind. "Call me 17."

"No, Hermione, I'm not going to do that."

This one's a tenacious asshole, isn't he? "Know that I'm going to call you whatever I want so long as you are hanging around."

His lips quirk, and his eyes narrow. "What are you going to call me?"

She reaches for the fringe over his forehead and pushes it aside. He does a decent enough job not retracting from her touch. Peculiar, his scar. Maybe she can think of something around it. "We'll find you a name yet, Harry Potter, and when we do, you might think you should've just had the balls to call me 17."

Nott snickers into his cup of tea. "Oh, aren't we in for some fun times?"

Potter pinches his nose. "Do shut up, Nott." He turns his attention then to putting food on his plate. "And, _Hermione_ , after breakfast, you and I are going to go someplace."

"Is that right?"

"It's called Diagon Ally. It's where—"

"It's called _what?"_

Soo-jin pats Hermione's fork-holding hand. "I know, sweetheart. These places with our people, the names are unlike anything you can imagine. They're…comical."

"Muggles are comical," Nott murmurs behind a newspaper.

Hermione drops her fork and reaches over the table, yanking the newspaper out of Nott's hands. _Daily Prophet_ , says the paper, and not unlike the portraits she saw before, the people in the photograph of the main headline are moving. In the photograph are two men shaking hands in front of a building with a red ribbon around it. A woman comes forward and hands a massive pair of scissors to the one of the men who snips the ribbon. Lights flash on them, like paparazzi is there.

Hermione turns the page. Matilda's profile picture for her _Dear Matilda_ column smiles and winks at her. In the cartoon section, the comic characters move and mouth silently to one another. In the employment section, jobs disappear before her eyes and new ones replace it. Her eyes narrow further at the descriptions of what people are looking for in an employee. For a nanny job…

"Half-blood or Pureblood only," she reads aloud.

Soo-jin yanks the paper from her, gawking at paragraph. "What?"

"It's a private position, hired by a family, not a business," says Nott. "They can discriminate all they want unless Proposition 3 is amended and Proposition 112 passes because homes are private property. And it's not like your _Valkyrie Vines_ in Oslo are so much better. A pleasant reminder to you Norway is more prejudice than here, sweetheart."

"Why do you think I'm _here_ all the time?"

"Just apply for citizenship and move here then. Potter will hire you."

"Mmm." Potter sips his tea. "Better not."

"What does that mean?" asks Hermione.

"What does what mean?" asks Nott.

"Half-blood. Pureblood." The table quiets. "And what's a Mudblood?"

Soo-jin reopens the paper. "That vile word wouldn't be in here, would it?"

"Where did you hear that word?" Potter pins his gaze on Nott who rolls his eyes and steals back his paper.

"Fuck you, Potter."

"I didn't. One of those…portraits upstairs that _move_ mouthed it at me."

"We won't worry about that right now, I guess," says Potter. "You have so much to learn about this community. About yourself and what you're capable of. Hermione, you don't even know _half_ of what you can do."

"I can do a lot." He has no idea what she can do.

"You could do more." He leans towards her. "Finish up your breakfast. I want to show you something."

Much to Soo-jin's concern, he takes her outside to the gardens. Hermione pauses at the expanse of the land and then looks back at the house behind her. Who are these people? _Why_ are these people?

After being confined inside for days, the sun feels nice, but the air is humid and overwhelmingly thick. Already her tinier hairs are sticking to the back of her neck. Clouds, fluffy and grayish-white cluster together. The grass is green and lush, and a robin hovers over a bird bath not far from the maze.

Yeah, she hasn't left England which is a small comfort.

"I hate mazes." Potter grimaces at the perfectly manicured and landscaped work of art that is the maze. "Care to join me in case I get lost?"

"We can stay here on the patio. It might rain anyway."

From inside his sleeve, Harry withdraws a thin and polished piece of wood. "When I was eleven years old, I got this. It helps me control and channel my magic. It's a wand. You likely don't need one. But this…" He gestures at her with his stick. "Energy you have. The power you were born with. It's magic. _Real_ magic. Do you understand what that makes you?"

Hermione stares at the wand. When she doesn't answer, Harry flicks his wrist and a surge of grayish-pink energy shoots out from the tip. Suddenly, her feet are not on the cement but hovering a good six-inches above it.

"Can you do this?" he asks.

"I'm floating."

"Can you do this?" he repeats.

"I've…yes, I think so." She hasn't done it to another person, but when she was young, she made things float.

Harry flicks his wrist again, and she's stable on the concrete. "Do it to me."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm curious. See if you can make me float."

Her brows arch, and she extends her hand and then snaps it back. What if she hurts him by accident? She's been using what little power the bracelet allowed as a weapon for so long, even contemplating about using it for something so simple as trying to make a man float a few inches above the ground terrifies her.

A potted plant on the cobbled wall draws her attention, and she focuses on that instead. A subtle warm fizz tickles her veins, an addictive feeling she's been without because of the bracelet and even with the room she got transported into. Her fingers wiggle a little, and the potted plant lifts a few inches.

And then shatters apart, ceramic shards and soil flinging several feet in all directions. A chunk of pot nick's Potter's ear, and he curses under his breath.

"Jesus Christ. It's simple lifting magic. That's all. Eleven-year-olds know how to do this."

She lets out a frustrated sigh. Her micro skills are poor. She's been walking so long, she's forgotten how to crawl. Stomping up to the debris, she touches the fallen soil with one hand and flicks her wrist with the other. The shards return and assemble themselves, molding together. The soil and plants repot itself, and the orchid is looking good as new. She touches a petal and changes the flower into a yellow rose. She puts the pot back on the wall.

"Twelve-year-old kids can do that. A mild improvement, I guess. I'll give you extra points for figuring out how to mend things. Half a point for changing the flower. Besides pots, what else can you mend?"

She shrugs.

"Can you heal?"

Hermione looks at him over her shoulder. Is he serious? "Is it possible?" She can cover up scars and wounds, but not heal them.

"Yes. I can teach you. Or, er, I know someone who can. You need schooling." His eyes linger on the pot. "Desperately."

Hermione opens her mouth and then snaps it shut. No. No, she doesn't need a teacher. She doesn't need to be here. Wherever here is. She needs to leave. As dandy as it that more are out there like her, she can't stay. Motive or no motive, when it comes to Soo-jin, Hermione can't be indulging her or herself. A second she wastes, is a second longer for HYDRA.

She looks out at the maze and the outskirts of it. There's got to be a way out.

"Don't run." Harry's got his stick held up. "If you run, I have to stop you."

She cocks her head, clocking his face and then his stick again. "You think you can."

"I know I ca—"

She disappears and reappears inches from him, grabbing the wrist holding the stick. "You're right. I'm not going to run. You're going to escort me out of here. Understood?"

He's fighting it. His eyes soften, but he's pushing against her power with his own. She squeezes his wrist harder and channels a surge of energy into him. A few moments later, he's hers. Those green eyes glaze over. His hand relaxes, and she lets go of his wrist.

"Get me back to London."

His head turns away from her, and he's vacantly staring through the glass doors. "We…have to go by Floo."

For the love of God! "By _what?_ "

"The fireplace." He gestures to the outside fireplace not far from them. "I'll show you."

There's a stone dish hanging from an iron hook secured to the cobble of the fireplace. Inside, a powdery substance. Potter takes a pinch and steps inside the hearth.

"Do exactly as I do and say what I say." He throws the powder down and says, "Leaky Cauldron."

Green flames consume him, and he's gone. Hermione stumbles back a few feet and then launches herself close to the hearth where he stood.

What. The. Fuck?

Gaping at the emptiness of the hearth, her hands hesitantly hover over the powder and then retracts when the glass doors open. Soo-jin steps out asking, "Where did Harry go?"

"Uh," noises Hermione, gesturing to the fireplace.

Soo-jin breaths long and slow. "That is not an appropriate way to get you to Diagon Alley for the first time. Did he even explain to you how it works before taking off?"

"…maybe…?"

Soo-jin rolls her eyes and goes up to the fireplace. "Now, yes, this is a fireplace. It _can_ be used for warmth, but usually we just go with magic to keep us comfortable. So we call it Floo. Ef el oh oh. It's a network, and most households and establishments are hooked up to the Floo via fireplace. This is your main source of transportation. Getting around from place to place. There are other ways, but this is the safest. Harry took the Floo to Diagon Alley, and he's going to show up in the Leaky Cauldron. It's the only current Floo Diagon Alley has."

Hermione stares.

Soo-jin chuckles nervously. "Listen to me going off like a mad hatter. This must seem like a crazy dream to you, 17. I'm sorry." She shakes her head. "I don't know what I was thinking. Sending Potter to take you to Diagon Alley? I thought you'd trust him more than me. He's likeable, and your introduction into the community would be better coming from him. He's popular and respected—"

Hermione boldly steps into the hearth. "I…stand right here?"

Soo-jin bobs her head and gathers a speck of powder, and smiles when Hermione offers her palm. "I'll take a step back, but I'll be right behind you—"

"That won't be necessary—"

"It's not a problem. Now throw it at your feet and say your destination."

"Leaking Cauldron?"

"Yes. Keep your elbows tucked in."

Hermione nods and chucks the powder at her feet. "Leaky Cauldron!"

* * *

Her feet hit the hearth, and her knees buckle, not because of the landing. She was unsure on how exactly she'd reappear at this Leaky Cauldron place. She falls forward and ends up on all fours. Her senses go on high-alert given how vulnerable her position is. She's hacking like cat ridding itself of a hairball, and there are people near. She knows they are staring at her before even looking at them. When she lifts her head, she does her best in masking how badly her surroundings have startled her.

The scent of a salty fried goods, breakfast, tea, coffee, and beer assault her. Familiar smells anyone would find in London at any restaurant or pub at this time in the morning. What they wouldn't find are the people dwelling in such a place. Half of the people are dressed like they came off the streets of modern London, and they all look to be around her age or younger. The others are adorned in garments of various eras but depending on the age group. A busty, middle-aged woman is wearing a flapper's dress unhappily matched with a pink velvet cloak. A man in his forties is dressed like a gangster from the 50s, hat and an unlit cigarette included. _Bales_ tattooed on his left wrist. Behind him is a very ordinary "No Smoking" sign next to "This is a WAND-FREE zone."

And there's no ignoring the mop cleaning the floor behind the bar as an old man serves up chips to customers.

Hermione can't process everything she's witnessing before a someone steps into her view. Not Harry Potter. A tall, lean boyishly handsome man shows him her hand. He's one of the ones that's dressed somewhat normally. But maybe too business-casual for such a place.

"Are you all right there, Miss?"

She ignores his hand and gets up, brushing off the ash from her jeans and then stopping because what's the point? She doesn't care what she looks like. She cares about getting to London. Where's Potter? Her eyes dart around.

"Neville," says the man who still hasn't put his hand away, "and before I ask who you're looking for, you'll need to present your wand and check it into me or Tom."

Her eyes slide back to him. "I'm looking for the man who probably came before me. Black hair. Green eyes. A little dazed."

His brows shoot up and mouths the word _American_ before saying, "Around here, all you have to say is Harry."

"Where is _Harry Potter,_ then?"

"Just Harry." He smiles good-naturedly "Went to the loo."

How's that even possible? She didn't give that jack-ass leeway.

The man called Neville eyes her, not necessarily checking her out but assessing her. "You a friend of Harry's?"

"Where's your bathroom?"

He points his thumb to the stairs. "The one down here is out of order. There's one upstairs, but your wand. I need to see it."

She pauses before answering, telling herself to be careful.

 _Don't let him think you're different._

 _Lie_ , _and don't over sell it._

"He's showing me where I can buy one. Mine got damaged, and I'm not from here." She grins. "Obviously."

"Are you an Auror?"

Hermione opens her mouth, but then Soo-jin appears at the hearth. Her feet land gracefully, and there's not a speck of ash on her. Neville's forehead wrinkles, his lips turn down. He looks from Hermione to Soo-jin to upstairs.

"Is everything all right?"

Soo-jin brandishes her stick. "Where's Harry?"

"Upstairs loo."

She hands the stick over to him. "Don't bother stashing it. She," she nudges her head at Hermione, "and I will be back in a few, and I can vouch for her. She got herself in a spot of trouble. She's wandless at the moment, poor thing."

Hermione denies herself the pleasure in sighing frustratedly and climbs the stairs behind Soo-jin. She wants to run, but she has no direction. When they're out of earshot, she says, "I can't stay here. Don't you get it?"

Soo-jin smiles while running her fingers along the banister. "You should've seen this place before the war. Disgusting. Dust and rotted wood everywhere. These stairs creaked like hag farts. Halls smelled like them, too. Neville really helped Tom out during the Rebuild. Neville is a professor but helps manage during summers. He's a good enough sort."

"I need to get back, Soo-jin." Hermione stops on one of the steps. "Take me back, or I'll go back down and slit Neville's throat and anyone else's who makes a fuss."

"That'd be a sight." Soo-jin turns around and stares down at her. "You'll probably succeed with Neville and few others before Bales takes out his spare, illegally-owned wand he keeps next to his prick and slices off your hands and feet from your body and coaxes you to eat them because he's an imaginative sort."

"If anyone's imaginative—"

"Get this straight, 17. There's no going back." She goes down one step. "I didn't want to say it in so many words. I didn't want you to feel like a prisoner in case you'd lash out. Harry and I capture dark witches and wizards, and that is what you are. Our methods of processing you are not by protocol. We're breaking a lot of rules not putting you in penitentiary while you await trial—"

"I don't need you to do me any fucking favors—"

"Yes, you do. Forget London. Forget everything and everybody you knew. They're not your people. HYDRA isn't your problem anymore." Soo-jin gestures to down stairs. "These will be your people. They would have been if you hadn't been taken as a child."

Hermione grabs Soo-jin's hand. "Take me to London."

Soo-jin's body visibly shudders, her eyes unfocused but not glazed. Her free, shaking hand darts behind her at the small of her back and reveals to Hermione another stick she held on her person. Her wrist jerks, and then Soo-jin relaxes and gasps in a breath.

Her head shakes, features darkening. "I can't have you doing that again."

Soo-jin's quick, and their hands are still together. The woman points the tip at Hermione's wrist and a series of marks, maybe sigils, appear along her forearm and burns into Hermione's skin. It stings for only a second and then fades leaving behind unblemished skin.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do that so soon, but I wanted you to be smart and not be so insistent on running back to get yourself killed. I also," she pauses and looks away, "didn't realize you could use force. I should've realized, though. I remember what you did to animals at the facility. You would've gone on and graduated to human beings."

"What did you do?" Hermione she rubs her fingers along her forearm. And how was she able fight her off?

Soo-jin turns and climbs the rest of the staircase. "Follow me. And when we go back down, don't breathe a word to Neville about my second wand, understand?"

"Understood." Her voice and mouth form the words before her brain even registers. Her feet rise and take each step, and she attempts to stop them. She tries to still herself and clenches her hand on the banister. Her vision becomes dizzy, nausea hits her, and her head begins to throb.

No!

She wants to scream, but a bitter laugh comes out instead. She gives in to Soo-jin's order and reaches the top of the steps. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" She raps on the bathroom door. "Harry, are you in there?"

"You didn't go through all this trouble to help me."

In the movies and books, Soo-jin would fold and tell Hermione of her grand plan. The real reason behind everything. But this is life. No matter how sharp of a curve she took into Absurd Land, reality is reality. Soo-jin only quirked her lips and said, "Keep that little enchantment I did on your wrist between us girls, all right? Harry wouldn't take kindly to it."

Hermione grabs Soo-jin's arm and then takes back her hand instantly. Burn blisters and welts appear on her palm and fingers. They don't disappear.

The bathroom door opens, and Potter hobbles out, eyes glazed over and looking like he wants to fly out of his skin. "I'm trying?" he says.

Soo-jin tilts her head back. "For God's sake, you did it to him, too." She waves her stick in front of Potter's face. The gloss recedes from his eyes, and he's able to stand normally.

"All's well, Harry. 17 is very sorry for what she did and won't do it again. Tell him you won't do it again, 17."

"I won't do it again." Hermione considers throwing herself down the stairs. She searches for a feasible weapon, but everything vibrates with similar energy to her own. Her surroundings feel protected. Like she could hammer at the planks of wood beneath her feet for hours, and nothing would come of it.

"She used the _Imperius,_ Soo-jin. On _me_. I can't overlook that. Imagine how many people she's done that to."

"I understand you're angry, but I'm here now, and I gave her a good talking to. If you still want to do something about it this afternoon, fine. But give her another chance. We know what the Muggles did to her, and what they've made her do. This is a new place. She wants to be free. Her survival instincts kicked in. She meant no harm."

Hermione watches as Soo-jin's fingers touch Potter's. Her pointer finger caresses the back of his hand. Her voice had been soft, and her eyes are wide. "We don't have to send her off to Azkaban _this second_ when we both knew she was yet housebroken. There were bound to be hiccups today. Let's hope this is the most unfortunate one."

Potter heaves a sigh, head dropping, and Hermione loses all respect for him. If she had any to begin with. Why are men such idiots? She would've respected him more if he killed her or sent her way. People who hesitate get killed, and Soo-jin's got him all tangled in her web, and he probably has been trapped for years without realizing it.

 _What kind of web are you spinning anyway, Soo-jin?_

Potter and Nott are obvious victims, and Hermione admits to herself she got trapped, too. But Soo-jin's been out and free from HYDRA for twenty years. How many victims has she feasted on? How many more is she currently sucking dry?

"Also." Soo-jin straightens Harry's collar. "You did amazing fighting off the curse. 17's powerful. I'm impressed. Maybe you can train me a little, too."

In that moment, Hermione wishes she would've killed Soo-jin when they were eleven. It's not because of how she's manipulating Potter like he's her bitch but because the woman reminds her of Natalia. Hermione misses her more than anything and watching this twat use similar antics in winning over people makes her sick.

Potter pushes her hand away eventually. "Maybe. Now let's get out of here. I feel naked without my wand."

Soo-jin has a holster beneath her blouse in the back, and Hermione carefully watches her stick it through the buckled loops. "You really should consider applying for a second. It's not like they'd give _you_ the runaround."

"I've felt out wands before. They don't feel right." He scratches the back of his head, sheepish.

"Try again. We'll both go. I've been debating an Ollivander."

"And give up a Gregorivich? I'd like to see that."

Every word they speak and the way they say them to each other, Hermione files away. She studies their body languages and compares it to the people downstairs. She scrutinizes the oddities they say, picking them apart to see if she can make sense of them and how they may relate to this place.

Wands. A word coming up often, and she's seen both Potter's and Soo-jin's. Sticks really don't do justice to them. They're not broken bits from trees but elegantly and intricately polished pieces of wood. Thinking about it, Hermione can feel an energy from them. A pulse. An uncomfortable pulse. Neither wands of Soo-jin and Harry radiate comfortable vibrations towards her.

As the three of them descend the stairs, Hermione tries again to break through whatever Soo-jin did to her. The sharp headache returns as does the nausea. Her legs become heavy, and her equilibrium tilts. She almost makes a dramatic scene by toppling over the banister, and she would've landed on person playing a flute to his seemingly dead frog.

She stops fighting and inhales deep, to both stead herself and to sooth her frustration. She reminds herself to treat this like a deep cover mission. Something she hasn't done in years and didn't enjoy, but it was an ass-saving skill, especially in the long run. God, she doesn't want this gig to be the long run.

London can't be that far, can it?

As she follows Soo-jin and Potter to the back of pub, the entrance door opens, and two customers come in, ordering coffee and a pint. Their coming allows Hermione sees three seconds of Charring Cross Road from the open door. Soo-jin grabs her wounded hand, squeezing. "Come along, 17."

"Nothing for you out there anymore," says Potter. His words further confirm what he knows about Hermione and what he even thinks he knows about Soo-jin. What exactly has she told him and Nott about HYDRA? At first, she was ninety percent positive Soo-jin told Nott almost everything. Thinking about it now, of course she wouldn't have. She would've told them _enough_. Hermione believed Soo-jin when saying how verbal she was about her situation while growing up. Surprise, surprise. No one believed her. Special little girls and boys being snatched from their mommies and daddies and thrown into a top-secret facility by fucking Nazis. Anyone reasonable would've thought her insane or attention-hungry. So Soo-jin grew up and learned what not say, but clearly developed a knack of knowing _just what to say_ and to who _._

Hermione wants to shout at Potter. Explain to him where Soo-jin really came from and the seriousness of it but stops herself. Because how well does she know Potter? She doesn't. Sure, he's a pawn in Soo-jin's game, but he could be at a table studying the board, wondering what move his opponent could possibly make next and how he can counter it efficiently.

His opponent could very well be Hermione, and she's just seeing this now. It didn't help she forced him, and the possibility of getting enough of his cooperation let alone sympathy is a joke. On top of that, he's blissfully ignorant when it comes to Soo-jin manipulating him. Hermione considers he's letting himself be ensnared for reasons only known to him. Even if his reason is to get laid and get laid only.

Everyone has an agenda. No matter how base.

A voice sounding too much like Madam B's instructs Hermione to steer Potter away from Soo-jin and persuade his attention onto her. Get his empathy. Make him want her. Desire her. Want to help her. Nat's voice interjects. Her ex-lover tells her Nott is her ticket. He's not calling the shots, that's for damned sure. Potter holds more sway in Soo-jin's decision-making than him. Still, he's got the resources supporting Soo-jin in whatever way she deems necessary and if Hermione can _coax_ him to cut her off while getting information, all the better. The odds are favorable in him knowing Soo-jin better than Potter.

Even as she thinks about seducing Nott, Hermione wants to bang her head against the brick wall Harry's tapping his wand on. She hates this and thinks maybe she should've killed herself when she had the chance. If she still feels this way by tonight, Hermione might even try throwing herself from the owlery. If she can't be free and HYDRA still thrives, then what's the point?

 _Pathetic,_ Madam B tells her.

 _Yes,_ agrees Natalia.

Even as a hole appears in the perfectly ordinary brick wall, Hermione barely registers it because Nat's reminding her what will happen if HYDRA isn't taken down

 _Relax. You have four years. You've got time. Learn the rules. Play the game. Win it. Then come home and end this one. You're in foreign territory now. This could be your hardest assignment yet. Remember your training._

Hermione manages to see passed the gaping archway of what had been a solid brick wall not five seconds ago and no amount of training could've prepared her for _this_.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," says Soo-jin.

To be Continued...


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Behold! Chapter 27!**

 **This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Stan Lee, 12-28-22 to 11-12-18. You will be missed but definitely not forgotten. *Blows kiss and waves farewell***

 **This chapter is also dedicated to the veterans and those actively serving in the military. *stands and salutes***

 **My heart and prayers go out to those displaced by the California fires and the families that have lost loved ones.**

 **Thank you, readers and reviewers! Thanks so much, guys, for your patience. I know a lot of you are aching for Hermione/Bucky time. Hang in there. It'll happen. Hermione's got some growing up to do first and some loose ends to take care of.**

 **Enjoy! Read and review!**

* * *

 **Chapter 27: Diagon Alley**

Soo-jin grabs her injured hand again and drags her passed the archway, and Potter links his arm through hers. Even as she gawks at her surroundings, she attempts to get her arm back. He's thin. On the scrawnier side but lean. She could easily remove his arm from her and even his person, and maybe she'll do just that. The archway is still there, she could—

"Don't even think about it," says Potter, waggling his wand at her.

"I don't think you realize how foolish of you it was to bring me here," she tells him and then sends Soo-jin a calculating side-glance. This place. This Diagon Alley is thriving of life, both young and old. Targets. Most she sees are children under the ages of ten. None of them appear to have wands or even the luxury of keen-eyed parents watching them. It'd be easy scooping up one and using him or her as leverage.

And look! A three-year-old girl with a ribbon securing her bun. No parent in sight.

 _Don't_ , warns Nat.

 _You're not even here._

 _It's not who you are anymore, Milas._

Without a care in the world, the child runs in front of them, she looks up at Harry and gently waves her chubby hand at him. Hermione notices her pink canvas slippers, pink tights, and the black leotard underneath her impossibly tiny cloak.

"Well, hello there, Isabella. How's your mum?"

"Yelling at Daddy and Uncles because they're idiots." She points across the street at a shop called Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Children of all ages pour in and out it, all so excited. Many of the ones leaving hold tiny portable cages and inside is the tiniest ball of fluffy colored fur, Hermione's ever seen.

"Rich idiots," mutters Soo-jin.

"Your uncles. Are they good?"

The child nods.

"And Grandma Molly and Grandpa Arthur? Are they doing all right?"

"Grandma got this ribbon for me!" she points to the bright orange ribbon securing her wild, black curls. "And made me this." She flaunts her velvet black cloak and turns around slowly to ensure Potter sees Isabella's name embroidered on the back. Also in orange.

 _Isabella Zabini._

Hermione tucks that name away for later and focuses on the attention Potter gives the girl. Other children wave at him while passing to the other side of the street. They, too, are dressed similarly. Hermione follows their little legs inside a ballet studio. She cranes her head for a better view and through the glass, sees two older ballet dancers rehearsing _Swan Lake's_ black swan's Pas de Deux.

The one playing Odette is flawlessly performs the footwork, and the instructor's got his wand directed at her legs. As the studio door opens and closes, Hermione hears the instructor shout, "Your wings, Prya! Now! Dazzle your audience!"

Black, shiny and smooth feathers first sprout from between Prya's shoulder blades and then spread and swell over her shoulders and then her arms. Her feet lift off the ground and hover over the wood flooring. The young woman continues to flawlessly complete the remainder of the dance without a surface and without arms, essentially flying with wings.

Holy shit.

"Bring back memories?" asks Soo-jin, snapping Hermione out of watching the dancer. She then says to Potter. "She was a ballerina."

"The hell I was." Despite the pain, she wrenches her hand out of Soo-jin's.

"You had ballerina training," she argues.

"You don't have a fucking clue what I was trained for. You have no idea what I learned. What I experienced. And whether you admit to it or not, I bet anything you're burning to know what the Red Room was really like. It was hell. Seven years. Seven _fucking_ years I didn't get to go outside. Not once. And do you want to know what they did to me when I did get to go outside at eighteen? What they did to all us girls? Or…the ones that at least survived to see eighteen."

Hermione may be unable to read her mind, but she can see Soo-jin's apprehension mixed with undying curiosity. Quickly, she recovers and takes her uninjured hand, patting the back of it. "17, I can't imagine the horrors you experienced there—"

"What did they do to you?" Potter interrupts. "Aside from keeping you indoors?"

"It'd churn your stomach."

"I may surprise you."

"Let us hope so. Soo-jin told me you're likeable, and so far, I'm unimpressed."

"Gaining your respect means being desensitized by evil. Noted. Also, you're not doing yourself any favors, either."

"If I wanted you to like me, Potter, you'd like me. I could've played the distraught, broken, sad and misused girl. I could've played your sympathies, and I could probably now even after forcing you. I could tell you right now _everything_ I experienced from the moment I got institutionalized as a kid, and you'd be oh so sorry. And then I could tell you how I got kidnapped and shoved into child-trafficking, and you'd just be devastated on my behalf."

"Quite." Potter shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Unfortunate what happened. Everyone's got trauma, Hermione. Not everyone grows up to be a killer."

"How nice for them to have had a choice. I think we both know it can be easily removed when someone bigger than a confused, terrified seven-year-old is calling the shots."

"I gather you're trying to get my sympathy now—"

"Is it working?"

"Try harder. You kill children, and I know you were thinking about grabbing one right here and using it as leverage to escape. You want my sympathy, Hermione? Feel remorse."

"No. You me want to show it."

And there isn't enough time in the world for her to ever make amends. The realization of her wrongs is still fresh, and they'll haunt her until she dies. But she's not going to give an ounce to this man or to Soo-jin. Very rarely would Nat even let Hermione see her guilt.

Hermione keeps her hardened mask intact as the faces of those she's murdered make their umpteenth appearance that day. They're in order, the first being that MI-6 agent from the Red Room.

Harry runs a hand through his black fringe. His scar really is strange, and she wonders how he got it. The lightening-bolt shape almost looks like it happened on purpose.

"This was a shit idea taking you to Diagon Alley so soon. I thought…I don't know what the fucking hell I thought, but we're here, and you need supplies. And if you behave yourself the whole time, I'll get you an ice cream."

"And if throw myself on the ground and have a tantrum?"

"I'll turn you into a newt." He smirks. "And you won't get better."

Hermione frowns, confused.

"You know? _Monty Python and the Ho—"_

"I've never seen it."

Potter puts a fist to his mouth, closing his eyes. He breathes and then says, "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. You've seen it right, Soo-jin?"

"Is this a…movie? My film exposure was very limited before I started at Durmstrang. Is it good? What's it abo—"

"Hermione, we're going to stop by Madam Malkin's first. You'll get measured, put in a basic order. You don't need anything from a joke shop or the ballet studio. You will need a cauldron."

Measured? She looks at the almost Dickensian scenery. It's like stepping back in time almost. But with a near-modern accent. No department stores in sight, though, so not that modern. Really, it looked like it could be a tourist setup.

"Not fourteen or fifteen years ago, it looked completely different," says Soo-jin. "Didn't it, Harry? Most of these shops are only a decade or less old. The ones that didn't get the full blast had to remodel and start up their businesses again from scratch."

The full blast. She doesn't ask, just stows it away for another time. They don't have to walk far to get to this Madam Malkin's place. Harry leaves her in Soo-jin's care because he says he has a bank errand, and Hermione is relieved because she can speak freely to the woman.

As they enter the shop, Hermione whispers under her breath to Soo-jin, "I'm going to make you regret _ever_ hunting me down, bitch."

Soo-jin slips her arm through Hermione's and squeezes. Lips tight in an unpleasant smile. "Behave yourself. Remember what Harry said about the ice cream. Oh, Madam Malkin, so nice to see you. It's been too long."

An elderly woman's head sticks out from the back curtains. Her hair is wrapped up in a tulip-imprinted dhuku, and her faded brown, watery eyes narrow. "Is the wedding back on, dear?"

"I have a friend staying with me. She needs clothes."

The woman's head disappears. "One moment, boy," they hear her say. She reappears, a bright shimmering muumuu over her stout frame. The red painted nails of her gnarled fingers skim over the heaps of material on display as she comes closer to them. Without looking, she grabs a reel of cream-colored charmeuse and presents it to Soo-jin. She forces her hand on the material.

" _Feel it_ ," she orders. "Doesn't it just say, 'Autumn weddings in the country are so romantic!'."

"The wedding's still off, and the satin one you made was lovely." Soo-jin clears her throat. "We're here for her. She needs clothes."

Madam Malkin puts on the neon pink-rimmed glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. She eyes Hermione up and down, lips pursed, and then grabs her hand, too. Thankfully, the uninjured one. She runs the pads of her fingers over her palm, poking at her calluses, mutters to herself, and then starts squeezing her shoulders and upper arms.

"Athletic. Impressively toned. Not a Quidditch player but built like a Chaser."

Quid—

Never mind.

"Not much here." The woman gestures to Hermione's bust. "Padded brassier. Do you have a fella, sweetheart?"

Hermione frowns at her.

"I'll take that as a no. Shocking with a face like yours. We'll stick with whites and flesh-tones then."

"Madam Malkin here can be familiar," says Soo-jin. "But she's very good. When's the last time you had tailored clothes?"

Her Stark-designed bodysuit. Not relevant now, and she wishes she didn't have to get rid of it while on the run. She'd like to have it now. She always felt safe in it. Kevlar-lined and rape-proof, compact utility belt, built-in holsters, and pockets. What more could a woman want in life?

"She'll need a basic load for the rest of summer, into fall and winter. Nothing fancy. Trousers and blouses and two cloaks. Color of your choosing."

"If she's staying at the Nott residence, perhaps riding clothes."

Soo-jin opens and then snaps her mouth shut, ultimately dipping her chin. "Fine."

"And at least one skirt. With your legs, dear, it'd be a crime not to show them just a little."

Madam Malkin ushers she and Soo-jin back behind the curtain. The client she was talking to before is a young boy no older than four. He's standing impossibly still for his age, floating and looping tape measurers take his measurements. A notepad and a quill—

A quill?

Whatever.

The quill writes down the boy's measurements on the pad.

Soo-jin shoots the boy a revolted look and picks up a magazine called _Witch's Weekly_ and shoves her face into it, so she doesn't have to look at him. She sits down, pulls out a normal looking pen, and flips through the pages to do a crossword puzzle. Hermione joins her but puts a couple of seats between them. Her eyes fall back to the boy, and she wonders why Soo-jin's reaction. If Hermione was partial to children, she'd call him cute. White-blond hair and a sort of cherubic face. His cheeks are round and rosy, but his chin's prominent, almost going amiss because his blue eyes are round and big.

"How do you do? I'm Scorpius Malfoy," introduces the kid.

"Where's your dad, kid?" asks Soo-jin, not looking up from her puzzle.

"He's getting me a new training cauldron. He'll be back soon."

Soo-jin lets out sigh. "And so will I." She whispers to Hermione, "I can't be here when his dad gets back. Too much drama. It's a long story—"

"I don't care."

"Stay here. Don't cause trouble. Don't make a scene. _Don't_ hurt or scare the kid. For the love a God, just don't. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

Prickly tingles set in where her wand made those marks appear on her forearm. They spread throughout her entire body.

Yeah, that bullshit needs to be undone. Whatever the hell she did.

Soo-jin leaves behind the magazine. Hermione wastes no time grabbing it and reading the cover. Aside from the silently laughing witch who's running her hands through her lush, thick hair, the cover isn't that different from what she'd see at any checkout station at the grocery stores.

 _10 Tricks to Drive Your Wizard Wild in Bed_

 _PMS? Skip the line at the apothecary, make-at-home potion remedy_

 _3 Signs Your Wizard's a Cheat_

 _Hair Thinning? French Visionary and well-known Female Healer Juliette Contessa may be the answer to your prayers._

 _Safe, Hair-Removal Spell for the Bikini Line._

 _Headaches and Hot flashes? What your healer isn't telling you._

 _Add This Surprising, Inexpensive Ingredient to your Morning Pick-me-up and Get Swimsuit Ready before Fall Hits: Lose a stone in two weeks and never gain it back._

 _Decadent Hazelnut and Butter Beer Cake: A recipe to satisfy your undeniable sweet tooth._

Hermione opens to the first page, beginning to read.

She doesn't get far.

"What's your name, Ma'am?"

Not looking up from the page, she asks, "Weren't you ever taught not to talk to strangers?"

"Indeed, he was." A man that couldn't be anyone else's father comes through the curtain, Madam Malkin behind him with rolls of fabric nestled in her arms.

"You talk funny. Where are you from?"

"Manners, Scorpius." The man looks at her, staring at her long enough to see whether she's a threat to his kid. "From America, I presume."

She returns to her page, and an emerald green handkerchief pops into view attached to a pale hand.

"Draco Malfoy. You've got soot markings on your face."

The names here, Jesus Christ.

The man has an air of wealth and poise, lightly accented with arrogance. He's blunt but polite enough to extend a handkerchief to a lone woman sharing a fitting area with his son.

She takes the offering. "Thank you."

There are mirrors all over the place. She goes to one and rubs at the gray smudges. She catches Mr. Malfoy's stare while Madam Malkin removes the tape measurers from around his son. When her face is clean, Hermione hands the cloth back to him. He takes it and returns it to his pocket and holds out his hand.

"This is the part where you introduce yourself."

He's not being rude, and she has to behave. She takes his hand, shaking it. "17."

"Pardon?"

"17."

His nod is hesitant. Pensive. "A nickname, I'm guessing. From youth. Your Quidditch number from your school days?"

She takes back her hand. "Something like that."

"Are you visiting or are you a new resident of England?"

"Uh…we'll see." Her eyes move to Madam Malkin. "Are you ready for me?"

"Yes, dear. Come here. Mr. Malfoy and young Mr. Malfoy, your order will be ready in about an hour."

The two leave, yet not without the older one throwing a glance over his shoulder at her.

"Poor dears," tuts the woman as she flicks her wand at the tape measurers. They spring back to life from the floor and wrap themselves around Hermione. "Mr. Malfoy lost his wife two years ago."

"Mm."

"Murdered. Can you believe that? In her own bedchamber. Of course, _he_ was the prime suspect. The investigation went on for months, but he wasn't convicted. No evidence, and he had an alibi."

"You don't think he did it."

"I've been fitting that lad since he was a newborn, and I'll admit he's not without flaws or sins, but he's not capable of murdering the mother of his child. He loved that woman and such a beautiful wedding dress she had. I provided her fabric, but she insisted on some French pastry to diddle up a design for her. I designed her sister's wedding gown. Never even got the chance to sew it. Died of some freak illness. Healers saw nothing like it and haven't since. All I can think is thank Merlin their parents didn't have to put them in the ground. They passed during The War. Unlucky brood, the lot of them.

An entire family wiped out.

Fascinating.

"And…how did they die?"

"Hard to say. It happened in another country. Greece, mind you. Neutral territory during that time. There was so much going here all the time as I'm sure you heard while in America. England didn't even know about their passing until a year later, and when we did it was just…two more deaths that happened."

Hermione likes her. She's a gossip. A well of info and no mind-reading necessary. Now where to start and who to start about is the question. It'd look odd if she started asking about Soo-jin. The woman thinks they're friends and _just Harry_ might not be a good idea either since children as young as fucking three even know him enough to wave at him on the streets. But if she approached with caution…

"Madam," Hermione starts, "Soo-jin, my friend. She works with Harry Potter. He's out with us today, but I've just met him. Is he…really all that they say he is?"

Jackpot!

Twenty minutes later…

"But if you ask me, when it comes down to it, he's still that lonely, broken orphan boy who came in to my shop at eleven." Madam Malin winks at her. "He needs a _friend_."

Having a friend especially a _friend_ is probably the least of Potter's worries, and Hermione's starting to understand him more when it comes to his relationship with Soo-jin. He's not being purposefully ignorant. The two don't have a relationship, period. He's using her for sex, a dollop of a slight ego-boosting to top it off. Soo-jin must mean almost nothing to him.

Madam Malkin told her a tale in hopes of gaining Hermione's sympathies towards Harry since he's apparently a tender-hearted, mournful lad in need of a good and proper hug. Yeah, no.

His instincts should be telling Potter to kill her. Not…rehabilitate or domesticate. Soo-jin called her a dark wizard, or witch in this case. She's not wrong, so why's Potter giving her the benefit of doubt? He's not so much of Soo-jin's victim like she thought he was. She might have a comfortable grasp on his balls, but he's no prey.

 _What are you hiding, Potter?_

"You know who else could use a friend?" pitches Madam Malkin, carefully folding one of Hermione's blouses and placing it in a bag. "Mr. Malfoy. I saw the way he looked at you. But to warn you, dear. Pick one or the other. Don't be dillydallying between them."

She stifles a snort. "I'll do my very best."

Soo-jin emerges from the curtain, eyes on her watch. "Are we about finished?"

The shopping bags are loaded, and Potter's waiting by the door. Madam Malkin pinches his cheek, tells him he's too skinny, and then gives him a hug. He's blushing when they leave the shop, embarrassed. His guard's down, so Hermione takes advantage and pokes at his mind. More as a test than peeking, not wanting a Soo-jin repeat.

What greets Hermione is not a solid wall of brain-throbbing ouch like Soo-jin's. Potter's front is obstructive as peanut butter. It's thick and smeary and not pleasant to handle with slow, blunt force. A sharp, fast strike, on the other hand, his memories and feeling and emotions are hers for the taking.

Next to Madam Malkin's is a shop called Eeylops Owl Emporium. Hermione slows her pace at seeing some of the most beautiful owls she's ever seen. Much like the ones at the estate. They sit, behaved and quiet, on their perches. One of them appears to be bred for strength and girth while the others appear to be bred for tininess.

"We vendor to Eeylops," says Soo-jin. Her nose wrinkles at the smaller owls. "People are wanting the little ones. They think they're cuter, and they take up less space and cost less food-wise. Harder, more expensive to breed, but that's where the money is."

Beneath the owls are a litter of kittens. Natalia wanted to get a cat for the apartment before things went south. They even tempted a pet shop, Nat liking the Siamese variety where Hermione couldn't say she had a preference. Strucker used to make her kill cats. He hated them. He disliked all animals but cats, especially.

There are no Siamese among the kittens, but there's a not-so-pretty, fat orange one in the corner of the cage not participating in play like the others. Its face looks flat, and she's reminded of Garfield the Cat. The kitten leaves the corner and presses itself to the side of the cage that closes to the window. It sticks its tiny paw through the thin bars.

"Hey Harry. Didn't you have a cat like this one? That you took care of after—" starts Soo-jin.

"Not now, Soo-jin." He bends down and taps at the glass where the orange cat is. "Weird, though. He's gone now. It's too long ago to have knocked up a cat and have this one."

Potter's tapping at the glass to get the cat's attention, but it's only got eyes for Hermione. He notices this and stands up, glowering at her and then massaging his chin like he's trying to decide something.

"It'd be cruel to deny her a familiar, Harry. They can be like wands and choose the witch or wizard."

Potter mutters under his breath and then says, "Stay here."

Good God, he's not really going to get her the fucking cat, is he? "I don't need a cat—"

He ignores her and goes into the shop. The transaction takes all of five minutes before he's exiting the shop, a tote and shopping bags in hand. He hands off the tote to Hermione, the cat inside, and the shopping bags full of kitty litter, a collar, kibble, and a booklet of the type of breed it is.

"If you hurt this cat, I will kill you," says Potter.

Hermione's lip quirks. "I won't."

Most of the shops, they pass by, but Hermione can't help but linger at the window displays. This place is strange. Like every ancient stereotype about witches and wizards have been crammed to create this place and these people. Cauldrons, brooms for "leisure flying" or "Quidditch", wands. Books of magic spells and potion-brewing. More than a handful, mostly aged folk, wearing pointed hats and peculiar stockings and boots. They go to Flourish and Blotts, a bookstore, attached is a chic, poetry-reading style café called Tea Leaves and Scrolls. Older teens and young adults mingle, read, and drink tea and coffee.

While wandering the shelves at Flourish and Blotts while Soo-jin and Potter are a few feet away discussing which book she needs the most for her studies, Hermione runs her fingers along the spines of some of the books, reading the bizarre titles. Her fingers stop on _Hogwarts, A History._

Hogwhat?

She removes the thick book from its place on the shelf and flips through the pages, quickly concluding that Hogwarts is, not only a place, but a _school_ for magical children ages eleven to eighteen who live in the jurisdiction of the United Kingdom and southern Ireland. The school is a castle and resides in Scotland. On one of the first pages is a sketch and then a painting of Hogwarts. Hermione has flown over Scotland several times and visited occasionally due to assignments. Never has she seen such an immaculate, fairy tale castle there.

There's a bench nearby, and she sets her shopping bags and the cat on it, engrossed already, and she's only on page five. The school was built in the tenth century, and there were four founders: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff. The book gives brief, one-dimensional background information about each person but does suggest referring to other books for more information on each.

Hermione flips back to the first two pages where the castle is shown. Her finger tips skim over, her eyes soaking in each detail.

Anger and jealousy. Ugly, hateful, and green flare up inside her. She was supposed to go to this place, wasn't she? This school where children like her got educated. She wouldn't have been odd. She would've been accepted and safe, far from harm. Hogwarts looks like everything she would've loved and wanted as a child. It's not fair this right, this amazing and wonderful school was denied to her. Poor, sad orphan or not, Potter got to go.

While she got the Red Room.

A people and a place that congratulated their graduates by making it impossible to conceive and bear children. It's…obscene. Unholy and unnatural to force it on a woman. Hermione knows this now and has known it, even before realizing HYDRA's betrayals and crimes against her. Hermione doesn't regret what the KGB did to her, but she knew a few of those girls hated their lives and would have liked to be mothers. Nat being one of them.

Hermione remembers what Madam Malkin told her, and her resentment ebbs. There's a possibility her life still wouldn't have been ideal if things had gone differently. If she had been able to come to this community and go to school and learn, prosper, and hone her powers. There's still a large amount she doesn't know about this place, but they suffered a war not long ago. What the war was about, the details are hazy, and even when many believed it had ended in the early 80s, the worst had yet to come apparently.

"I think we have everything," Potter says, coming up to her.

"Did you go here?" she asks, showing him the book.

Potter takes it from her, his features unreadable. "For a while, I did."

In not so many words, he's telling her he didn't attend for the full seven years.

"It must've been nice. Going to school in a castle. With children like yourself."

He closes the book and puts it on the shelf. "I'm certain Theo has this book in his library. You can read his copy."

"I didn't go to Hogwarts," Soo-jin pipes. "Durmstrang. It's in Norway."

That explains her accent and lets Hermione know there are more schools than just the one. She wonders how many there are but doesn't ask. Potter's not looking so chatty. She must've struck a nerve in him.

On the way back to the Leaky Cauldron, they pass by Broomstix again, the Nimbus 2800 being replaced with the Firebolt VIII by the shopkeeper. Potter slows his pace, eyes lingering on the new display.

"Do you guys, like, actually _fly_ on those?" asks Hermione.

"Sure thing," says Soo-jin. "I'm not much a flyer, though. Prefer to keep my feet on the ground. The UIAR is really coming down hard anyway. Check-in points, certifications, and licensing if it's not a training broom. Registration renewal fees and safety inspections. A lot of these new brooms aren't even worth having if you're not a Quidditch player or a racer. Flying that is an invitation to get flagged down by the air patrol and landing yourself a ticket."

"Sure miss the days where I could hop on my broom and go. None of this technicality rubbish they keep coming up with to drain our bank accounts." Potter waves dismissively at the broom while at the same time, half-heartedly kicking the brick of the building.

"Supposedly it's to keep illegal paraphernalia out such as undocumented immigrants, unregistered wands, cursed objects, dangerous creatures such as baby dragons and dragon eggs, poisonous potions, highly addictive substances. Those kinds of things."

"Obviously."

Potter mentioned a cauldron earlier, and Hermione thought he was half-joking, despite seeing several people toting them around. The shop is actually close to the Leaky Cauldron, but it makes sense Pottage Cauldron's Shop is their last stop. Cauldrons are heavy. Potter makes her and Soo-jin wait outside. Both wanted her to be introduced to this community, but they're careful—and with good reason—on her contact with people. If only Soo-jin had been more careful at Madam Malkins.

At the back of the Leaky Cauldron, Potter hands everything off to Soo-jin who takes out her wand and shrinks all the merchandise, excluding the cat, and directs everything into one bag.

Hermione can _hear_ London, car horns and alarms and shouting of pedestrians, but she hardly registers the sounds. Soo-jin catches her stare and throws her a disarming but warm smile. "Neat, I know. You'll be doing this, too, before you know it."

"I'll take you back to the estate," says Potter, keeping her close. "Soo-jin will go by Floo. I'm going to ask because I do remember you Disapparating and Apparating a whole three feet. How far have you gone before?"

Disapparate and Apparate. Will the new terminology ever stop?

"I'm assuming you mean disappearing and reappearing. Why?"

"We're about to jump ninety miles."

Ninety miles? She didn't even know that was possible and never even dared going more than a few. "Is it going to be like that _thing_ at my parents grave?"

"Arguably worse." He grabs her elbow.

"Because it's so pleasant to do it anyway, you know," she jokes.

"Tight, squeezing feeling? Nausea, vertigo, etc?"

She nods.

His smiles grimly. "Multiply that by ten."

When they reappear, it's outside and at in front of a wrought iron gate. Hermione collapses onto her hands and knees, dry heaving on the grass. Potter waits patiently enough while she recuperates and then leads through the gates and up the cobbled pathway to Nott's estate. It's raining by the time they get to the front door, and Lilo lets them in.

"Master has guests. Both would like to speak with Mr. Harry Potter, too, in the tearoom," says Lilo.

"I think I know who. Lilo, would you take Hermione to her room and make sure she has her things."

"Lilo would oblige Mr. Harry Potter, but Master's guests have requested Miss 17 be present, also."

Potter smears a hand down his face. "Might as well get it over with."

"And what if I don't want to meet these _guests_? Who else has Soo-jin _arranged_ for me to meet?" asks Hermione, disgusted and beyond annoyed. "This is tiring. I don't want to make nice anyone else-"

"If you think you're making nice right now-"

"I'm not some-"

"They're your teachers," he interjects, heaving a sigh. "I told you about needing help-"

"I don't need help," she growls. "I don't need anything. Potter, just _please_ let me go."

"You're a criminal, so no."

"Then lock me up. Put me on trial or whatever your kind does to people like me. Don't give me any special treatment because you feel bad—"

"I'm not doing _this_ because I feel bad for you. Jesus Christ." He massages his eyes behind his glasses and mutters, "Regardless what I told the other two. Just...help me out here. _Play along._ "

Hermione stares, lips parted out of surprise. "What _are you_ playing, Potter?"

He grabs her injured hand, unapologetically tapping her inflamed skin and then runs his thumb along her forearm. The markings Soo-jin put on her appear briefly, only to fade again. It's like he knew it had been there all along.

"I can't remove it. She's too good. I can probably find someone who can." His wand hovers over her hand, the skin healing. "But this is elementary."

And when she thought she had him all figured out. It's now Hermione learns Soo-jin has no power over Potter at all. Not even a little. The game he's playing is cat and mouse, and he is definitely not the mouse.

"Well, Potter. What do you know? You've managed to impress me."

 **To be Continued...**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Grimmauld Place**

 **A/N: A big thank you to my readers for being patient with me during these last few months. Thank you so much for your patience and for the feedback I received on the last chapter. I can't apologize enough for the delay, but I had to take care of my physical and emotional health. Getting older is no fun.**

 **If you haven't already and you're interested, I've been slowly sorting together my Killgranger (Hermione Granger/Erik Killmonger) series. There are four parts now and more will come. You can go to my stories through my profile and find them there.**

 **R &R! Tell me your thoughts on this chapter! I always love hearing feedback and even constructive criticism.**

* * *

 _"Well, Potter. What do you know? You've managed to impress me."_

The corner of Harry's mouth twitches, and she appraises him. What does this one have up his sleeve? He's not all that he appears, and Soo-jin certainly isn't either. Her eyes narrow because she's still a cat falling from a tall building. She must improvise if she wants to land on her feet. Both Harry and Soo-jin are up to something, and Hermione would be an idiot if she swung her favor in the latter's direction.

"You haven't seen anything yet," he remarks.

Hermione's smirk widens into a coy smile. "Promise?"

It may still serve her well to entertain the notion of seducing Nott. Potter's alluding to an alliance holds promise but may prove unnecessary. He has power and trust over these people here. She witnessed it at Diagon Alley. Her expression falters, though, because it's not the people she's concerned about. That quaint, cobbled stretch of cuckoo, Halloween shops could be blown to hell for all she cares. Escaping Soo-jin is her main priority. Potter may be partially on her side. If she can wrangle in Nott…

Potter throws her an eye-roll. He's not falling for her charms.

"Why won't you let me go?" she asks. "I mean, _really?_ Aside from the obvious."

"Because I'm certain Soo-jin didn't go to all this trouble so she could _save you_." He looks down, and his voice goes quiet. "We can't talk here. It's not private." He grabs her by the elbows and tries to move her, looking perplexed that he can't even make her budge. "Come on now. The sooner we meet your teachers, the more _informed_ you'll be."

Her eyes slit. "Tell me—"

"Think of where we are," he hisses. "And Lilo is not the only house-elf on the property. They're inclined to eavesdrop and report to their masters and mistresses. Soo-jin and Theo may not be a thing anymore, but she still holds their loyalty. Think…think of where _you_ came from, and I'm not pretending I know shit about it, but I've watched enough spy films to understand you don't just talk anywhere. You wouldn't discuss the Russian president's assassination on his welcome mat, would you? Jesus."

Well. He's…not wrong, Hermione guesses. She frowns at her nails. Her eyes flicker at him mischievously. "Say assassination again, Potter. It does all sorts of things to me."

He throws her a revolted look. "I'm not above wrapping you up in a straitjacket and locking you in a room with a therapist."

"Unnecessary."

Hermione jerks her head to the side and sees a tall, lanky man dressed in a black sort of suit and a black cloak. Streaks of gray stripe his thin, shoulder-length black hair. The way it curtains his sallow face forces his hooked nose to appear more pronounced. This man narrows his gaze on her, taking her in from foot to the top of her head, lips wrinkled. Aside from that, his eyes unreadable. No indication of what he thinks of her.

One of the "teachers", she surmises.

And that's as far as she concedes before the man raises his wand in her direction and calmly utters, " _Legilimens."_

The wind is knocked out of her, and she falls to the floor, her limbs jerking. It's like a white-hot beam slices articulately through her skull, delving deep into her mind. Through the agony, she's somewhat aware he's doing this to her, but not only that. He's _searching_ her memories. He doesn't lazily flip through the pages consisting of her time in S.H.I.E.L.D., the Middle East, the Red Room, or the Sokovian facility. He bypasses them, paying them no mind.

Words like 'stop' and 'don't' might be coming out of her mouth, but it's hard to say. This man is performing perfect brain surgery on her with no anesthetic. Everything hurts and nothing's working. There's a chance she may wet herself in front of him, and Potter, and _the elves_ who may or may not be eavesdropping.

The man slows when she was seven years old and still with her parents in Surrey, where she had her first incident. A metaphorical string hooks around that memory and tugs, gathering it and all the ones following. Her parents admitting her to the institute, Dr Lawrence's treatment and ultimate kidnapping of her. He sees her being shipped to Eastern Europe and the traumas she witnessed onboard and what she faced in Sokovia and then in the Red Room. He gathers everything following, as if making a detailed copy for himself. When he's finished, that metaphorical string loosens, and she's left twitching and breathing heavily on the floor.

Her eyes are closed, and she senses Potter kneeling down beside her, running the backs of his fingers over her drenched forehead and cheek. "Christ, Severus."

"Agreed," says another voice. Not Soo-jin's but another man's voice. "That is no way to introduce yourself."

"I had to be sure what exactly we're dealing with," the man named Severus says, his tone grave. "Potter, a word."

Where Potter and the man called Severus go, Hermione's not sure. All she knows is that the former is gone, and the other man is approaching her. Her eyes manage to peel open and see a tired, sickly man already sporting a patchy, five o'clock shadow in the early afternoon. Despite looking like he could use a twelve-hour nap, his eyes are cautious yet kind. She catches his hand nervously twitch before taking her own and encouraging her to stand.

"There's a piping hot cup of tea and warm, buttered scones in the other room. I daresay, you could use both."

Hermione almost blurted out a, "What the hell did he do to me?" yet she knows exactly what he did. She's done it countless times before. If she were a more conscience-heavy woman, she'd mutter to herself something like, "That's what that feels like. All right."

The gravity of her situation increases. It's not that she's just trapped in this fairytale land of witches and cauldrons. These people are like her but better. They can curse and they can perform at top-notch. Their world may be silly, but the people are far from it. There's nothing silly about Soo-jin, Potter, and especially that Severus man. She can't help but remain silent as the exhausted man helps her to her feet. Her legs are jelly, and the man holds her by the waist, guiding her to the other room where he sits her down in a chair. Her gaze slides from the steaming cup of tea and golden-brown scones to a resting place on the floor. In her seat, she starts to gently rock.

Everything's fresh and new. Her parents' faces. Each sin committed by her hands and tongue. Each kill. Each shed of blood.

And she's unable to make amends. She's trapped by these learned and trained people with their agendas. How can she escape them?

 _Play along._

Potter had said that. Earlier, hadn't Nat's voice reminded she had time?

Hermione adjusts her eyes on the knife against her plate. A plain butter knife. Fuck being patient. Fuck HYDRA. She could drive it into her own jugular. Bleed out for penance and freedom.

Madam B reminds her again how weak she's acting. How pathetic. So an ugly man came along and jostled her memories and brought her transgressions into high-definition. Big deal. Hazy or clear, remorseful or ambivalent, the sins were always there.

The man sits down across from her and removes a flask from his pocket, untwisting the cap and dumping something into her teacup. "I think you need this more than I."

"I can't get drunk," she says.

His sigh is mournful, and expression perplexed. "That is unfortunate." He switches the teacups and takes a sip before setting it back down. "My name is Remus Lupin. You may call me Remus. I understand you prefer to be called 17."

Her head throbs and the smell of the tea and scones make her stomach churn. She wants to lay down, close her eyes, and never open them again.

"Well, 17. I don't think we'll get far this afternoon given Severus's unorthodox way of getting to know you, but he was never one to make friends with students. He tends to go for the hard-lesson approach. I suppose in time, he'll want to teach you how to block unwelcome invasions."

"He can do that?"

His chin dips in consideration. "As long as you learn and not simply _try_."

"And…what can you teach me?"

He smiles warmly at her, "I understand you already have a familiar"

He calls for Lilo who appears promptly and asks him to fetch her cat from Soo-jin. The elf returns with the cage and gives it to Remus and not Hermione. He opens the tiny door and takes out the fat, orange ball of fur, stroking the animal gently and evoking a rattled purr from the creature.

"Ah," he says at the thing. His forehead wrinkles and stands, offering her the cat. "This looks like someone I used to know."

Hermione doesn't take the cat right away but lets a beat pass before hesitantly standing and taking the cat from him. The fur, which appears dry and frayed, is surprisingly soft. The warm, little body nestles close to her bosom, pressing its flat face into her chest bone while its tail sticks up and tickles her sternum.

"Do you have a name for her?"

Hermione shakes her head, awkwardly scratching behind the ears of the kitten. Her purring amplifies.

"Well, I'm sure you'll think of one in due time. Until then, she'll be your companion. A dear, dear friend in this very strange world you happened upon. You'll confide in her during your most difficult times. I understand you are already so powerful. That can be a good thing and a bad thing. When you are asked to float a feather, I need not it dart around the room, bothering the portraits. As for Mr. Snape, he'll undoubtedly want to get you started on potions. There will be no wand-waving, or in your case, hand-waving but patience and following instructions exactly."

Potions. Hermione thinks of the cauldron bought in Diagon Alley and imagines herself hunched over it, foam and smoke brimming over the top of it as she cackles wickedly in her mothy, black garb and pointed hat, striped stockings on her feet and legs. Also, she's in a heavily frosted gingerbread house and evilly wishing well-fed children begat by bad parents may happen upon on her candied doorstep.

Her nausea subsides, and the tea and scones don't seem like a bad idea. The tea soothes her stomach further, and her shoulders relax a little. The scone gives her an energy-boost. She feels a sudden urge to run. Not run away—well, yes—but to strap on a pair of Nikes and hit the pavement. She yearns to run with Steve Rogers again, not at a purposeful half-speed but to be by his side as they sprint around D.C. at full throttle, no words between them. As if by pure, concentrated determination, they could both flee fast from their problems. Their ghosts.

She misses him, and she misses Nat. God, does she ever and hopes they'll make use of the betrayal she suffered them and turn to each other for comfort, but that's naïve. Unrealistic. This will harden Natalia further and cause her to be more distrustful. Hermione's former lover will see Rogers as another potential blow and force herself to see him nothing more than a colleague. As for Rogers, his attraction will dampen towards Nat by being acutely reminded of where she came from and what she is and used to be.

Maybe after a while, they'll learn again to trust each other.

Remus appears to sense her restlessness and asks if she'd like to join him for a walk outside.

"I hear there's a maze."

When they arrive at the courtyard, in the distance, Hermione sees Soo-jin and Nott on horses full-gallop around the perimeter. The clouds above them break apart and cluster. The humidity is thick. Hermione puts down the cat and enters the maze with Remus.

"Are you a teacher at that…Hogwarts school?" she asks.

He looked at her, surprised. "Harry told you about the school already."

"I found out about it while in Diagon Alley. I was supposed to go there."

His smile is grim. "I imagine you would've done very well there, 17, but I'm comfortable enough in saying you would've faced hardships."

"Worse than what I experienced?"

His pace slows, and he looks at her carefully. "I'm not going to pretend I know anything passed the surface material he provided. What I do know is that you were cheated an education and life—the childhood—you deserved. You may have been cheated in other ways if you had got to come and be a part of this world, too. You'll learn about the history of this place and understand in time."

Hermione remembers the sneering portrait from that morning and what Madam Malkin told her about Harry Potter. A handful of matching puzzle pieces in a grand, complex puzzle. She doesn't understand everything, but she understands enough for the time being. The kitten rubs against her ankle, purring, and she looks down at it. So different and not particularly pretty but cute enough all the same like any small, relatively helpless creature much like she'd been at seven years old.

"Is it because I'm a Mudblood."

Remus pull out a handkerchief from his pocket, his eyes narrowed and troubled. It's then Hermione sees the wedding band on his ring finger. "Where did you hear that word?" He dabs his forehead. "From Mr. Nott, I presume."

She shakes her head. "My parents did not have powers, and I do. That's what it means."

He lowers his head, looking like he failed her somehow. "You haven't been here even a week and already you've experienced and learned prejudice."

She lets out a dry chuckle. "Prejudice isn't unique to just here, and I've been called many colorful things in my life. Names can hurt some, but not me."

"Is that why you've chosen to number yourself?"

She doesn't answer. Her kitten's ready for more attention, so she stoops down to pick her up. Once Remus realizes she's not going to reply, he moves on with a soft sigh. "I reckon you're ready for schooling early as tomorrow. I'll arrange with Mr. Snape that I be your morning teacher."

"Why did he invade my mind like that?"

"Mr. Snape has let it be known to Harry what a potential problem you could turn out to be. Out of curiosity's sake, I ask, not what he saw particularly, but if he's right concerning what he did? How difficult will you be, 17? Because it'd be rather naïve of me to think you're anything but a tampered firecracker."

"But you never answered _my_ question?" She gives him a smirk. "Are you a teacher at the school? Is that what makes you qualified for this assignment?"

He laughs, though there's a painful squint to his eyes. "I did teach at the school for a year when Harry was just a boy and then did so again later in a more…domestic setting. I'm in no way adequate in all subjects, thus Mr. Snape, but I'd like to think I can educate you properly given you do your part and read. Study. Listen. This world is your home as much as it is mine, and you very much need and deserve to learn all that you can about it if you desire to have a future here outside of prison."

"Acclimate," she says quietly, dipping her chin like she understands. Like she agrees. Like she'll be alive in ten years, existing here in this world and blending in like any of the other witches she saw at Diagon Alley. Like her near-future isn't bones, dry and forgotten and rightfully so.

As they navigate through the maze and back to the house, Remus gives her a gentle lecture of the segregation between magical and non-magical folk during the England's history. Hermione listens, keeping her questions to herself. When they return to the house, Lilo greets them and invites Remus on behalf of Nott and Soo-jin to stay for dinner. He decline's politely and goes to the patio fireplace, disappearing into a bloom of green flames.

Hermione is decidedly left alone with only the elf. She looks at him and then over her shoulder and wonders how far she could get if she ran and how many times she'd have to run away before these people got fed up because how long can she play along? It's been proven for a hell of along time, but how exhausting and inconvenient spying and undercover work can be. Probably even more so since she doesn't have any conviction to carry.

She wants to leave. She wants to die, too. She also wants to know what Potter is hiding when it comes to Soo-jin and her agenda, and most of all, for HYDRA to implode. So many desires and none of them complement each other, let alone correlate.

Nott and Soo-jin allow her to take dinner in her room. Soo-jin joins her for dessert, and Hermione spends the half-hour analyzing everything she can about her. The way she speaks. Her Norwegian lilt. The way she holds her spoon and how she's slow to devour her ice cream, savoring each spoonful. There are red calluses on her hands but are far from rough.

Soo-jin talks a lot and very animatedly about nothing that matters. She goes from one subject to the next, bringing up Potter's talk about _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ and how they should watch it together. She talks about the weather in Norway and how pretty it is in the summer. She talks about her horse and how much she loves riding.

"You'll like it, too. We'll go this weekend. It'll be a nice change from the amount of academia shoved your way."

Soo-jin talks to Hermione like cursing her, forcing her to obey, was a perfectly sound decision. She talks like they're well on their way to becoming good friends. But Hermione sees the tension in Soo-jin's shoulders. Her wand is right next to her sundae. Lilo watches and waits from beside the open door. The woman is ready for an attack in case Hermione's able to resist the curse, and Hermione wonders if it's possible since she's so cautious. Her grip tightens on her spoon, and she imagines lunging forward and planting it deep in one of her eyes. The spoon drops from her fingers, her entire arm igniting in uncomfortable pain. Like her limb fell asleep, and not only do her nerves hurt, her muscles and fingers won't cooperate. The sigils reappear on her forearm, and Soo-jin must notice them because she stops speaking about how gross and bloated she gets on her period. Her brows raise, and she sets down her spoon.

"Are you not thinking good thoughts, 17?"

"Always," she replies, strained. She rests her arm on the table and picks up her spoon with her other hand.

The sigils are slow to fade this time. They disappear long after Soo-jin leaves and Hermione's in bed flipping through the pages of her "transfiguration" book from Diagon Alley. Her cat is curled up beside her folded legs, licking its paws. Hermione pauses in her reading and considers her bedside table. It's made of mahogany. Could she turn it into cedar? As a child, she could turn pencils into pens but never quite vise versa.

There's a spell for that. So simple, she's almost embarrassed. She unpackages the quill Potter purchased for her, making a face at the archaic pointlessness of it.

" _Stilus,"_ she says to the quill, waving her right set of fingers just as her beginner's charms book instructed. Swish and flick.

Nothing happens.

She presses her lips together and rereads the paragraph before trying again. This time she imagines in detail what kind of pen she'd like the quill to transform into.

" _Stilus,"_ she repeats.

In her left hand, the quill shortens, and the feathers disappear. The shaft thickens and hardens into a plastic capsule of a plain black hue, and the sharp, pointed tip molds into a ball-point. Chuckling at her success, she studies the pens and even untwists the barrel. Inside, an anorexic feather slides out instead of a spring and an ink chamber.

Well, this is stupid. Hermione decides she doesn't care for transfiguration. In a last, half-hearted attempt, she attempts to make her mahogany nightstand cedar. Her hand flourishes aggressively, and she imagines her mother's dresser from years before. The dark, polished amber pales into a very faded, white- lavender hue, and the scent of a woodsy crisp, wintry forest hits her nose. The knobs on the dresser have also changed from polished gold to tarnished brass. Getting up from the mattress, she runs her hands over the new structure. The style is even different. Exactly like her mum's.

On top of the dresser is a crystal canister filled with decorative and senseless clear marble-like pieces. Hermione remembers her mother had a music box on top of her own. Hermione closes her eyes, pictures the instrument, and then waves her hand over the canister. She opens her eyes and...it's not perfect, but it's enough that she's proud of herself. Instead of a polished-oak box with a crucifix engraved on it, a crystal replica is there. Hermione can see the mechanics, the cogs and wheels. Carefully twisting the key, the top slowly springs open and _Zorba the Greek_ fills the room.

Hermione falls into a fitful sleep, open books surrounding her, and jerks awake at her cat's sharp hiss and feral meow. In the dark, she makes out the cat on the bay window, pawing at the curtains. Beneath the drawn drapes, she sees movement and hears a knock on the window.

A knock?

Getting out of bed, she pads to the window and pulls back the drapes to find Potter hovering outside the window on a fucking broom. She flips the latch and opens the window. "What are you doing?"

"Hop on."

"Hell no."

He jerks his head over his shoulder, indicating he wants her to get behind him on the broom. "I'm going to tell you all I know, but we can't do it here, and we have to be fast. House-elves generally sleep only four hours a night, typically on a set schedule. I've got to get you back here before any of them wake up and realize you're gone."

"If they're asleep, then I don't see a reason why I have to get on that thing."

"Because this isn't just _us_. We're expected in London in a half-hour. We need to be quick."

Her breath hitches, and she nearly jumps onto the broom and ignoring the insinuation that someone's expecting to see her, too. "You're taking me to London? Real London?"

He makes a face. "Don't get too excited. We'll only be in it for a few seconds. Don't try and run. You won't get far, and Snape will kill you. I'm not joking, and he will succeed."

"Promise?"

Potter gives her a sad look. "Please just get on and don't be difficult. Do you want to know what's going on or not? Do you want to remain cursed and bound to _her_? Or do you want revenge?"

Eyeing the very impractical method of travel, she climbs onto the cushion and then balances on the sill. She grabs a hold of Potter's shoulders and swings her legs over the shaft of the broom. He waves his wand at the windows, closing them. The cat presses her flat face against the glass longingly.

The broom jerks into full, break neck speed towards the clouds. Hermione wraps her arms around Potter's waist and buries her face into the back of his shirt. Her stomach leaps towards her throat, and she clenches her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut.

Heights don't bother her. She's jumped out of planes. Typically, there's a trusty parachute attached to her person, and she's in tactical gear. Not on a goddamned broom, barefooted, embracing a man for dear life, and wearing a light blue, cotton two-piece. The higher in elevation they climb, the colder she becomes.

"Open your eyes, Hermione."

"Fuck you."

He laughs. "I didn't peg you for being afraid of heights."

"I'm not."

"Then look."

She forces her eyelids to open, and she stares ahead over Potter's shoulder. They're below the clouds just barely, but far below them is Wiltshire. So that's where she is. The stony, picturesque town of Cotswolds greets her vision. They fly over it fast. They must be going close to eighty or ninety miles an hour.

"How fast are you allowed to go before the UIAR or whatever pulls you over?"

"The broom's got a strong Disillusionment Charm engraved in the shaft. No one can see us, hear us, or track us when we're on it."

"Stealth tech," she murmurs, more to herself.

London approaches fast. Hermione breathes in the scenery of lights and cars and buildings like oxygen. She stares hungrily down at it. She thinks of the location of MI-6 headquarters and how fast she can run once touching down to the ground. But Potter begins his descent too far from where she'd hoped, hanging low over a neighborhood of flats on a street called Grimmauld Place. Both she and Potter climb off the broom, and he's got his arm around her wrist and his wand trained at her chin the moment her feet touch the concrete of the sidewalk.

"Stay. Look carefully between 11 and 13."

Hermione follows his line of sight and stares between door 11 and door 13. He starts towards it, wand still digging into her chin. It's easy to ignore, especially when a door appears and discolored walls and windows. As if they'd been filthy for a long time and had been washed as clean as could be years later. Above the door, 12 appears.

Potter opens the door and walks right inside and closes the door behind them, taking his wand from her chin and waving at the door, muttering nonsensical words underneath his breath.

The entryway's completely dark. Her vision adjusts and she sees a curtain off to her side. Like it's hiding something. Potter points at it and then puts a finger to his mouth, shaking his head. Down the hallway, she sees a dim source of light coming from behind a closed door. He goes down the hallway toward it, and she follow behind. The sharp pleasant smell of coffee and tea assault her nose. Inside the room are people at a rectangular dining table nursing mugs and cups of tea. She recognizes Remus and Snape and absolutely no one else. They all stand at the arrival of Potter and her. She suspects they stand for him, yet their eyes are on her.

"And who is this?" one asks. A tall dark-skinned middle-aged man in traditional African garb.

"Do proceed in starting the meeting, Potter," says Snape.

"Some of us would like to get a wink of sleep," says an Irishman.

"Second that," says a tall, somewhat handsome redhead man. A similar looking man with one ear nods his head in agreement.

"Never mind who she is. I got word from New Orleans. Three members of the Benoit family died several days ago from a rare case of Vermilion Pox. In Buenos Aires, the Rossis were half-wiped at a family dinner from cursed wine glasses and cutlery. Don't even get me started on Russia and Africa."

"Everyone in the world knows the Romanos have it out for the Rossis since Spain colonized the bloody joint. Sounds like a family feud to me"

"They're all Pureblood families, Seamus," says a pregnant woman several years older than Hermione. She's got a heart-shaped face and blonde beach-waves with hot-pink highlights. "And they're not just dying one at a time."

"Sounds like they're getting there's, is all," mutters a young man in his late twenties, early thirties. An officiated note-taker it from the looks of it given his Apple Notebook. Hermione stares at the device, curious and hungry. It's the first electronic device she's seen since being abducted. Her fingers itch to snatch it from him. The damage she could do to HYDRA with just that.

"That's very dangerous thinking, Dennis," remarks the dark-skinned man, his mouth set in a worried line.

"Some of these families," starts another dark-skinned man, sitting tellingly close to the one called Seamus. "They were Riddle's sympathizers. They helped fund both the First and Second War while at the same time, pushing Muggle-Borns out of their own community by any means necessary."

Potter massages his cheeks like a frustrated child, breathing deeply out his nose. "I don't need a tally of their fucking sins, Dean. Yeah, loads of these families are no good, but there's an epidemic happening. It's not just old, prejudice farts getting just desserts. Their entire line and influence are being wiped out. _Kids_. Non-political relatives are disappearing. Governments and economies are collapsing. The magical world is having a mass-take over, and both influential and non-influential Purebloods are the target."

"Harry might be onto something," offers Remus.

"Might be," stresses the redhead next to the one-eared one. He shoots Potter an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate. It's not much to go on. Bill thinks if there is something, it's a job for the Unspeakables, not the Order. We understand your concern and that you might think you see a pattern," starts an elderly woman. "But what you are actually witnessing is family-feuds gone awry and corrupt governments imploding."

Potter swivels his gaze to Remus and Snape. "Soo-jin is a part of it. I know it."

Snape's features remain unchanged while Remus throws the younger man a tired look.

"She cursed Hermione." He gestures to her, saying the claim like he's grasping at straws. "An Obedience Curse. Didn't she, Hermione?"

All eyes are on her again, and she doesn't have to read their minds to know that regardless of what she says, it won't matter. She's a barefoot stranger in blue pajamas to them. There's not even a wand visible on her person.

"Yes," she says, careful, but not to any of them people, just to Potter. She's looking at him and only him. "If she is like you claim, Potter, what would be her motive?" Hermione knows. She can count the number of days she's been in this world and not use all her fingers, and still she knows what Soo-jin is trying to accomplish and why. What Hermione's roll in it, remains to be seen, but she can fathom a guess.

Potter is quiet for a moment and then reveals, "She _and others_ want to rid the world of blood prejudice." He sighs. "By slowly and carefully committing mass genocide."

Others. Hermione pictures Soo-jin-like lunatics dotting the earth.

"Well," pipes Seaums, "good theory. Coming, Dean?"

Dean throws Potter an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Harry."

A series of 'Sorry, Harry' gets thrown at Potter. The two who bother remaining in the room are Remus and Snape.

"Is it true Soo-jin cursed you?" asks Remus.

Sure. Soo-jin could very well be responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths, but apparently that's small potatoes in comparison to the bothersome, sometimes visible tattoo Soo-jin branded her with.

Hermione nods and then tenses when Snape waves his wand at her person. The sensation he hit her with before doesn't happen, but he does ask to see her arm.

She doesn't comply.

"If you'd like me to break the curse, I need to see your arm," he says patronizingly. Like she's a child.

The want for the curse to be gone outweighs her reluctance. She shows him her arm, his wand hovering over her apple scar. The sigils appear, angry and burned, and he lets out a short, upset exhale.

"I'll need time and may have to refer to a Curse-Breaker. This is dark magic, indeed." He spares Potter a glance as if to say there _might_ be substance behind his claims. "And illegal. Similar to a Binding Curse old Eastern European families placed on their indentured servants a few centuries ago."

Snape lets go of her, staring at Potter in consideration. "You are not without your reasons in believing something amiss about Soo-jin, but if you intend to call another assembly of the Order and have _all_ the members show, you will need more proof and more persuasion. Old, bigoted families dying off will not gain sympathy from the majority, if any, at the table."

"We will see you in the morning," says Remus, tipping his head at Hermione. Both he and Snape leave she and Potter alone.

Potter stares irritably at the dining table, massaging his chin. "There's a worldwide takeover going on, and I know Soo-jin's a part of it. I need your help with this. Your in close quarters with her, and she dragged you into this world for one reason and one reason only. She's _grooming_ you. I think I've only seen a fraction of what you're really capable of. Training you up in the guise of private lessons, you'll be an unstoppable weapon for her and her cause."

Unstoppable. She's heard that term before, directed and promised at her. She rubs her forearm and thinks of how Snape invaded her mind and brought forth the worst she's ever done to the forefront of her memories. All those crimes she committed on behalf of HYDRA. They groomed her. Trained her. She got lessons and enhancements to be their perfect weapon of choice. Only to be too afraid to let her and her self-awareness out of the box, and currently, she's never been more grateful.

Unlike HYDRA, Soo-jin won't be afraid let her out of the box to play. She's gone through this much trouble to, not only get Hermione, but prepare for her, as well. Hermione can't access her mind and no matter Snape's abilities, she doubts he could even crack her wall.

Her eyes lower, and she lets out a quiet, long drawn breath. Nat's voice whispers to her. Telling her she's needed here. Her skills, and everything she's been trained for has to be put to use for these people. Potter's not as influential as she originally thought. He'll need help. He may even need her help more than she needs his.

To be Continued...


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: Play the Game**

Potter returns her to the estate, and she falls into a fitful sleep where she dreams of Natalia. They're in the Red Room, facing each other and sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor. Light pours through the glass window and around them, their peers from long ago dance in pink tights and black leotards. Hermione tears her gaze from Nat and watches them. Most of them are dead now. She hasn't seen their bodies, but HYDRA tested her loyalty those years ago by asking for names. She knew what they'd do with those names, and a part of her died pointing the gun at them, so her true master could pull the trigger.

"You never gave up Mother," says Natalia.

"She was never Mother," she replies.

The scene shifts. No more movement in Hermione's peripheral. Her peers lay on the floor, side-by-side, straight and lifeless. Their skin grayish-blue, eyes wide open and white lips parted. The girls sink into the floor and reemerge as a handful of bodies, people who are a little more than strangers. The first one to stand out to her are the small ones. The two kids from Diagon Alley, Isabella and Scorpius, catch her attention first. Like her girls, they are dead. Beside Scorpius and is his father. The one Soo-jin couldn't bear to face at the shop.

Potter and Snape are among the dead, but she doesn't pay them any mind but does give Nott a second glance and Remus a third.

A hand grasps her shoulder, and she looks up from her sitting position at Soo-jin who's smiling at her. "You've done well," she says.

Behind Soo-jin is a army of figures, faces masked and bodies obscured in burgundy robes.

Jerking awake, Hermione sucks in a breath and cups her dewy forehead, inhaling and exhaling. Her cat jumps onto the bed, nudging its head against her elbow. She ignores her for the moment, whispering, "Jesus Christ."

The mark on her forearms burns and probably has for a while. Hermione gets the gist. Soo-jin wants her to wake the hell up. There are no clocks in the room, but the sun's bleeding through the thick drapes. Given when she got back and the sleep she managed, she's guessing it's approaching nine in the morning.

Taking a quick shower, she returns to her room and puts on a pair of gray trousers and a white blouse. Sitting at the vanity while manipulating her hair into a braid, she sees a platter of steaming beans and toast, eggs, and fruit appear at her private table in the reflection. A glass of orange, speckled liquid beside the plate. Finishing her hair and putting on a pair of black loafers, she sits down and sniffs the glass, coughing at the pungent pumpkin scent.

"No thanks," she mutters and goes for the tea. She'd prefer coffee but whatever. It'll do.

Twenty-years ago, she would've murdered for a plate of these scrappings, but her taste buds have changed. Coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich from Dunkin Donuts with Rogers after a run through D.C. would've been preferable. He'd be sweaty and charming at their designated booth, complimenting her speed and technique while dipping his ballcap low over his face, trying not to catch anyone's attention.

She stares at the empty seat across from her, and it's fine. She doesn't want any company this world has to offer and hopes that won't change. She hopes everything and everyone will be annoying forever. She doesn't want to get lonely in this place. She doesn't want to make _friends_. There's an inclination she feels towards Remus, but she can keep those emotions at bay. He's a mellow, comforting man, but for the foreseeable future, absolutely useless to her and Potter when it comes to exploiting Soo-jin.

Brushing her teeth and gathering her splayed books from the bed, she creeps out of the room and makes her way to the library where she sees Remus flipping through a book and Soo-jin pacing.

"There you are," says Soo-jin, noticing Hermione when she comes down the stairs. "How nice of you to finally grace Mr. Lupin with your presence. He's only been here for, I don't know, an hour waiting for you. Perhaps I should mention we will be conducting your tutoring as standard school hours. Be here at nine sharp, lunch at noon, and you'll retire at the three."

"My room doesn't have a clock."

Soo-jin rolls her eyes. "I very much doubt _you_ need one, but for the sake of redundancy and accuracy, I'll arrange one. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to work. Behave for Mr. Lupin, would you?"

When she was out of earshot, Remus begins with an apology. "I'm sorry for Harry dragging you…well," he looks around nervously. "You know."

Hermione raises a hand. "Please. I'd rather not get into that this morning." If he's not going to aid Potter, then she doesn't want to hear any form of a sorry. On behalf of himself or Potter. Yet, she won't fault him for not getting involved on a slim case that sounds like a madman's conspiracy theory. He's a stressed, unhealthy man. It probably was a great struggle for him to get out of bed this morning, so he could come here and spend his morning teaching her.

"Still," says Remus. He takes one of her books she stacked on the table. "Have you taken a look at your reading, 17?"

She nods.

"Have you tried any of the spells?"

She nods again. "Would you like me to show you—?"

He shakes his head and pushes a notebook her way. "Later."

She opens the notebook which is filled with unlined, pale beige paper. Like old scroll paper and even though she got a quill set in her room which she didn't bother bringing because she didn't think she'd be doing any writing this morning, Remus slides a rectangular box her way and an ink well. She sighs and gives him a wince.

"Pens are more practical."

"Ah, yes. That clever Muggle invention barely making headway here." Remus waves his wand over the set, and the well disappears. He clicks open the box and gestures her to take the quill. "It should last you as long as one of those _pens_."

She takes it, eyeing it distrustfully. It doesn't set right in her hand like a pen.

"How's your Latin, 17?"

Her brow shoots up, not hiding her smirk. She leans back in the chair, quipping, "Probabiliter magis quam tibi."

He chuckles and gives her a sheet of rough, beige paper listing a set of English words. "Excellent. Conjugate them if you would."

Her shoulders sag, and she rolls her head. "Seriously? I speak twenty-eight languages, Remus."

"Humor me. I want to see how advanced you really are."

For God's sake, she's thirty years old. The entire exercise is beneath her. A waste of time. She glares at the paper he gave her. Elementary. She could have the list done in three minutes, but if he wants to see advanced, she'll show him.

She'll even show herself.

Concentrating on the words, memorizing and reciting the Latin terms in her head, she touches her own sheet of blank paper. Her eyes close and imagines the words written in her own writing style.

" _Ostendem,"_ she whispers, her other hand forming a gentle swish and flick.

Her eyes open, and she smiles triumphantly at her success. In _ink_ , cursive and everything, are ten conjugated terms.

"Oh." Remus dabs his forehead with his handkerchief, smiling weakly. "Well, then." He waves his wand at the stack of books he brought. All but two fly into his trunk. "Those will be of little use to you. Let's get started on history, shall we? Have you read the introduction and chapter one yet of your text book?"

"I've read up to chapter twelve."

He coughs into his handkerchief. "Pop quiz it is, then. I expect essay answers. Each answer should be no less than seven sentences. Please write your answers for the first three at least. I want to see your penmanship."

She gestures at her work. "This is it."

"I'd like to see if for myself," he replies crisply. "You may be a grown woman, but you are student all the same, and I expect you to show your work. And to forewarn you, Mr. Snape will not be so tickled to see that trick. He may even conjure a blackboard and have you write lines for your cheek."

"Will he spank me with a ruler, too?"

Remus pointedly ignores her. "Who invented self-stirring cauldrons and what year?"

Hermione scoffs, muttering under her breath, "I can't believe such bland bullshit made into a history book."

" _And_ how it impacted the first Goblin Rebellion?"

Hermione raises her hand, more out of instinct than respect of the student-teacher relationship Remus was trying and failing to promote. "So…goblins. They're real. The book didn't have pictures, and the author didn't really describe them, so…"

"Quite."

"Mmm." She purses her lips, tip of her quill tapping against the paper.

"Perhaps I should add that you have eight minutes to answer each question."

How sweet of him. Reports are her life. Being in the world of espionage and military intelligence taught her to write fast and in-depth in a short amount of time. Got in late after a job. Too fucking bad. Ten-page report due at eight sharp the next morning or within a few hours. And don't be making up shit for fillers. What happened has got to match whatever everyone else on the team experienced.

Remus spends the rest of the morning trying to find her limits, not so much as to find flaws but to discard what's unnecessary. He's a tired, middle-aged man with a baby on the way, and he's got a fatherly vibe to him. He's probably got more kids. He likely doesn't want to waste his mornings.

At noon, while Remus puts away his books, he praises her. "Your ability to retain information and mimic it perfectly is astounding, 17. I think we'll dabble more into Transfiguration and Charms tomorrow. You're more than ready. You've done well today." Flourishing his wand, his material flies into his truck. "Continue your reading. You may get another quiz tomorrow."

Hermione watches him leave and then hurries to follow after him, not yet ready to say goodbye to him without at least bringing up what happened during the night. "Remus," she calls after him. "Let me walk you to the…fireplace. That's where you're going, right?"

He nods, and her arms fold. "Do you believe Potter at all?" she asks. "He thinks a lot of you. Your opinion matters to him."

Hermione's only guessing. It's not like Potter sat her down at performed a ballad about those he considers friends. He doesn't have to. The more she hangs around him, the less reason she needs to poke at his mind. At the meeting last night, more could've come from the sounds of it. Those that actually showed must be special to him, and he to them.

Remus sighs, grabbing her hand and patting her forearm knowingly. "Be cautious, 17, and be aware that no one here has your best interest at heart. I, in turn, think the world of Harry. That's why I'm here. It's why I agreed to help you, but I can't say for certain if this is all a good idea."

At lunch, Hermione takes the meal in her room and then goes through her new things bought from Diagon Alley, finding a simple pair of black leggings and black, generic shoes similar to tennis shoes. She tears the sleeves off the shirt she wore when she got transported here and then sets it by the leggings she draped on the bed minutes before.

Fuck it all, she'll run this afternoon, so help her God. She'll run in the maze, lose herself until sunset, and then rest. Lay on her back, curling her fingers around the blades of grass and yanking them out. Watching the clouds move, wishing she was dead while at the same time wishing to see Nat one last time.

A minute or two before one, she returns to the library, and Snape is already there. When she looks down at him from the railing, she darts back into her room to grab her cauldron and lugs it down the stairs. The wooden table is no longer polished mahogany, but a slab of granite. She sets her cauldron by the newly placed igniter.

Snape has paid her no mind. His cauldron above low heat, stirring itself. Hermione sniffs and stifles a cough and a gag. The room is beginning to smell like a sulfuric swamp.

Not looking up from his book, Snape says, "See that wicker box. Open it and dice up all the contents on that cutting board."

Hermione spots the wicker box, opens it. Her eyes bug out of her head, and her lips curl into a grimace. A dozen or so worms thick and long as penises greet her. Hermione hesitantly picks up one up, hoping they're freshly dead or something.

They're not.

The worm contracts and attempts to wrap around her fingers. She makes an undignified noise, slams the worm onto the board and swiftly hacks it in half with Snape's nearby pairing knife. The two halves lay still for a moment, only to start contracting and inching towards each other as if to undo her damage.

" _Dice_ , _"_ repeats Snape, in his low, nasally voice. He's still not looking at her but does lick a finger and turn the page of his book.

Letting out a breath, she grabs one of the moving worms and slices into it sideways. Purplish-black goo spill from its insides and gets on her hands. She contains her shudder, reminding herself she's been elbow deep in corpses. This is nothing.

The smell of acrid, charred, moldy earth hits her nostrils, and her stomach churns. Once she finishes with the two halves of the worm, she grabs the remaining eleven and works fast. She's a peach with an unpretentious knife, she reminds herself.

Her speed and skill grabs Snape's attention. He's no longer reading his book but studying her hands and her _skillful_ work on the worms. He doesn't comment, only sniffing and instructing her to scrape the chopping board's contents into the cauldron. She does so, and then he tells her to take the self-stirring stick and stir clockwise twelve times, stir counterclockwise eight times, and then stir in a figure-eight fashion twenty-two times. On her third figure-eight, Snape squeezes drops of red from a little clear vial which turns the contents of the cauldron a rich, mauve hue.

Once she stops stirring, Snape removes a wooden goblet and a ladle from an open leather bag and pours a bit into the goblet.

"Drink," he instructs, grave.

"Sure." She picks up the goblet, blows on it and then knocks it back. Her gag reflexes and stomach shudder. Her eyes water, and she slams down the goblet, stifling a belch.

"I'd be foolish and call _you_ the fool in being so trusting. For all you know, that's poison. But you're not currently in the mentality for self-preservation, are you?" He gestures at her. "Your arm, Miss Granger."

She pulls up the sleeve of her blouse. "It's 17."

He hovers his wand over her forearm. Soo-jin's markings erupt, and Snape's lips curl in disappointment. He lets go of her arm and paces, stroking his chin while muttering under his breath before saying, "We'll try again tomorrow."

Her brow wrinkles. They're done already? "Before you go—"

"I said we'll try again tomorrow. I didn't say we were done for the day." He waves his hand dismissively at her before carefully putting much of the equipment away into his bag. All by hand and carefully so, unlike Remus.

"Yesterday, you got into my head. Is there a way I could block you?"

At this Snape pauses, so he can pin her with an unreadable expression.

"I've been able to read people's minds for along time," she starts, vague. "I've never really had anyone do it to me. I don't want it happening again. The shield you've got is impenetrable. How'd you get it that way?"

Snape ignores her question, levitating a book with his wand from a shelf of the library. More like a dusty tome, it slams down with a hard _thud_ on the table. Hermione barely gets a chance to read the title— _Baltic Runes_ , before it whips open to chapter one. As she skims over old-school Bulgarian words, in her peripheral, she sees Snape cast a spell from his wand. A hazy film encapsulates them entirely in a bubble which then fades to nothing.

"We are free to speak for the next while before the estate's wards disintegrate it." He points to the book. " _This_ book is filled to the brim of the darkest binding magic known in Europe. It's an ancient. Likely worth more than your life. It does not belong to the Nott Estate but was stolen from Bulgaria's Ministry of Magic a few years ago. Before you came down, I cast a De-Cloaking spell on the books. Soo-jin, though she was never one of my students, spent a year at Hogwarts. She was brilliant and well-read and fairly loathed amongst her Durmstrang peers because of her Muggle-Born status. That didn't change when she was at Hogwarts. In her own way, she tried to find a connection with Ravenclaw but failed, so she spent her evenings and weekends in the library. I only recall this since she was a genius. If she'd been average or an absolute fool, then I would've paid no mind. Her work was always exemplary—"

Hermione cuts him off with a sigh. "She's not a Muggle-Born."

Snape squints his eyes at her. "She told you this."

Hermione shakes her head. "Her mother was a mistress of a…wizard in France."

"Her mother was a Muggle then?"

Hermione shrugs. "I don't know. Look, I wouldn't think this really matters, and I don't know how much you saw when you were in my head, but I'm certain Soo-jin's father killed her mother when she was, like, three. I saw it in her head when we were kids."

"Give me the memory," he says quickly.

"Uh…"

He gestures for her to come close. The tip of his wand hovers over her temple, and he says, "I'm going to extract the memory from you. Recall it in great detail. It won't be a perfect memory, stemming from a child's mind and then mingling in your near-broken one all these years."

Hermione let's the insult slide and does as he instructs. The wand's tip touches her skin, and she feels a peculiar tug. She closes her eyes and thinks back to eleven-years-old and Soo-jin breaking into her room at the facility. Not too quickly, she skims over their tussle, to the point where she had to defend herself the best way she knew at the time.

After a few moments, the tip of Snape's wand leaves her skin, and she opens her eyes. A strand of wispy, translucent white-gray is sticking to the tip. Snape summons a vial wandlessly and traps what seems to be her memory within the tiny bit of glass. He corks and pockets it.

"It may be prudent," he starts, "to get you started on memory-retrieval. Your memories of Soo-jin may be vital for what is to come."

Her heart constricts. "So you believe Potter for sure?"

He lets out a sharp exhale. "I had hoped at least more than half of a generation would pass before another war happened. I hoped even more to be dead when it did. What a time to be alive for the first Wizarding World War."

Hermione isn't sure how to respond to this and doesn't have to. She sees whatever spell Snape cast to keep their conversation private start to shimmer and then dissolve.

"Read this in your spare time while Soo-jin's away. Study the runes from and compare them to the ones on your arm. I'll spell the book, so when you return it to the shelf, it's cloaked again."

"The Bulgarian is old-school—"

Snape throws her a hard look. "Now where were we? Ah, yes." Out of his bag, he pulls out two textbooks: _The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts, 104_ _th_ _Edition_ and _Defense Magical Theory, 87_ _th_ _Edition._

"Disregard your beginner's book Potter got you. You're a grown woman, not a child. You house more education, power, determination than an eleven-year-old. You will read the sections of each book tonight. Tomorrow, come prepared to teach _me_ what you've learned. If you do well, we may start dueling lessons."

Hermione stops herself from telling him she can fight just fine, but already, she's starting to become familiar with his character. He's not talking about hand-to-hand combat. He's talking about magic against magic.

Their time together is short in comparison to her time with Remus, but Snape left her with much more homework. Still, she's not ready to settle in for the afternoon. She goes to her room and dresses for a run, going out into the courtyard and staring down the maze challengingly before taking off in a sprint. The abrupt dead-ends keep her on her toes. Pushups, burpees, and jumping jacks in this and that cove. She pushes herself to the limit even more by containing what little energy she's got left and expressing it through tai-chi and yoga. Through the slow, soft movements, she practices her Latin and tries not to dwell on Snape's mentioning of a _first wizarding world war_. Apparently, these people have never had a world war before, and how lucky is Hermione she might get to be a part of one?

From her downward-dog-position, she falls to her knees with a strangled breath. She wishes she had the nerve to kill Soo-jin all those years ago. This place might still have the problems it does, but at least Hermione wouldn't be a part of it. As hidden and safe from HYDRA that she is right now, she'd rather be out in the real world, exposed and at risk of annihilation than here leashed like a beast to another goddamned master with another fucking crazy agenda.

Hands flat on the stone and grass, she lowers her head down and contemplates bashing in her head, but Lilo the elf appears next to her. She barely flinches at the interruption.

"Lilo has been asked to tell Miss 17 dinner is in an hour, and she's welcome to join Master Nott and his guests."

She straightens with a sigh. "Is your mistress not joining us?"

He shakes his head, miserable. "Mistress Soo-jin will be away for a few days because of unexpected happenings at work."

"Mm." Whether Soo-jin is really working or murdering doesn't matter to Hermione right now. She's getting an opportunity to hang around Nott _without_ Soo-jin, and that's something. She can see how stupid he really is when it comes to his ex-fiancée.

Hermione's still up in the air whether or not it's worth seducing Nott. It might just add a complication to the mix because Hermione's certain if Soo-jin finds out she's warming up to Nott, she'll kill him.

Hermione's also certain Soo-jin plans to kill Nott anyway. His days are numbered, it's almost too obvious. He's got money and means and has a government-type job, according to Potter. Once he's no longer useful or is more trouble than he's worth, Soo-jin will get rid of him. Hermione isn't sure she's in the mood to speed things along, but she'll keep her options open.

She's not going to join him and his guest for dinner, but she'll spruce up in case she sees him later tonight. There's old makeup in the drawers of her vanity. Not a lot, but enough to lengthen her lashes and gloss her lips. In the cupboard of the bathroom, there are "hair potions" and creams, one specifically for unruly hair. Per instructions, she mixes a cream and potion together in her hands and runs it through her hair. The outcome…well, let's just say, Hermione would've killed for this shit back in her Red Room days as she struggled slick her hair back into a perfect ballerina bun.

If a stray curl found its way out of her bun or braid, Madam B would rap her stick against the back of Hermione's thighs and or backside and stop everyone's warm up until the stubborn lock of hair could be resituated.

Awkward and hesitant, she calls out inquiringly for Lilo to the empty space of her room. He appears immediately, and she congratulates herself for not flinching.

He bows deep. "What can Lilo help Miss 17 with tonight?"

"I won't be joining your master and his guests tonight. I'll take my dinner up here, thank you. I've got…homework." She looks over her shoulder at the mess of parchment on her table. "You don't need to tell him that or anything. I'm sure he'll figure it out that I'm not coming."

Lilo does a poor job at hiding how rude he thinks she's being, but he bows again anyway and says he'll arrange a tray for her. Which one does _two hours later_ and clumsily so, nearly spilling water and wine and soup all over her assignments.

And there's no dessert.

Hermione straightens out her dishes and thinks that maybe it might do her good to watch her words with Lilo. Like Potter said, Lilo belongs to Nott but favors Soo-jin, so she might as well be his mistress. He'd likely do anything for her and from what she can see and has read, elves are powerful and clever. By magical bonds, they are forced to serve their masters and, in some cases, punish themselves if they've misbehaved or failed a task. Soo-jin is not his bonded mistress. He does what he does for her because he's loyal to her due to respect. And that makes him a better asset to Soo-jin, therefore, making him more dangerous to Hermione.

How much does _he_ know about Soo-jin?

Hermione's going to assume he knows everything if not almost everything.

Following her meal and finishing up her assignments and reading, she practices several transfiguration spells and even a few "Charm" spells. She makes her quill float and write for her. She even spells her antique coatrack into fluidity and use its knobby ends to rub her back.

It didn't feel as good as she hoped. Her mind wanders to other spells capable of satisfying _other_ needs.

More out of curiosity than having the carnal urge to learn an enchanted, yet lackadaisical approach to masturbation, she goes to the library and searches for books on sex magic.

Unsurprising, she doesn't find anything. The closest thing she finds is a book packed with articles and mini-memoirs warning against love spells and love potions, even to the extent of conceiving offspring while under the influence.

Hermione returns the book and aimlessly wanders the halls, in hopes Nott's guests are gone, and she can happen across him. She ignores the disgusted sneers from the portraits, but her thoughts turn low and dark the longer she walks. The walls with their angry paintings close in on her, and she feels so trapped, bound to this place. Not the house but this strange world and their strange people and strange problems. She wants to be free of it all. She doesn't want to help Potter even though he needs it, and she doesn't want to risk becoming a controlled and content beast on Soo-jin's leash.

Rounding a corner, Hermione catches the strong scent of salted water and sees a reflection of moving ripples on the far wall. There's a set of stone steps and archway up a head on the left which leads to an impressively large, indoor swimming pool. The area is dark, save the sunset and the bright crescent moon shining against the gigantic, stained-glass windows descending from the arch, gothic-styled ceiling. The figures and creatures in the glass are unknown to Hermione. She can't identify them, but they move silently. Almost somberly wading through the blue glass.

Approaching the pool, she crouches down and dips her fingers int the water. It's a cool temperature for such a warm, humid area. Peeling off her clothes and leaving her sports bra and panties on, she dives into the water. Stroke after stroke, she stays in the water well into the night. No one bothers her. The elf doesn't come looking for her and neither does Nott. For someone half as eager to find her as Soo-jin had been, he isn't at all in a hurry to socialize with her. She's not sure if it's because she hurt him when they first met or because of something else.

This is home. He's letting her "reside" her at the request of Soo-jin. Hermione needs to get a good read on him. What's his angle?

Climbing out of the pool, she stretches her arms high above her head and then slowly bends down, hands flat to stone floor. Water drips off her, making the stone wet, and with a content sigh she straightens and then rests her gaze on the archway where she came through. It's not Nott, goddamn it. That would make too much sense. No, standing there is Potter, hair mussed and pale. Behind his glasses, his green eyes are vacant and glassy.

She acknowledges him, dipping her chin. "You all right?"

He stumbles towards her. His feet drag. She thinks he'll walk right into her but ends up stopping beside her, staring down at the water.

"She's dead, Hermione," he whispers. Like she knows who he's talking about and he says her name like he's known her all his life, and they're friends.

"Soo-jin is dead?" She can't be that goddamned lucky and looks at her forearm.

A shudder ripples through the man. One of his eyes twitch, then he blinks. A single, thin tear falls down his cheek. "No," he chokes out and then stares as if realizing, they aren't on the same wavelength. She could read his mind, but she's hoping he'll cut the dramatics and get to the point.

"Then who?"

In the distance, passed the archway and down the hallway, somewhere a kid is crying hysterically.

"Ginny," Potter says and slams into the water, and she frowns at his sinking figure. Honestly, it takes her thirty or more seconds to realize he's trying to drown himself.

To be Continued...

* * *

A/N: Be gentle, my readers. Be gentle. Be kind. I love you all and do apologize for the slowness of the updates.

*Sigh*

I watched _Avengers: Endgame_. It was phenomenal, though, there will be no "real" spoilers in my story from it or _Infinity Wars_. I might allude to them a scene here and a scene there, but if you haven't seen the film yet, you won't catch it. I promise. :)

Apologies for the errors. I can't seem to get my mind into proper editing mode, but I'll continue to do clean-sweeps.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. More good things and adventures to come. I promise.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: Finally! Chapter 30 is here! Wahoo! Hope you enjoy!**

 **Thank you, readers, reviewers, and followers! I appreciate your support. Reviewers, I so much appreciate your feedback. Readers and followers, I appreciate you loyalty and sticking with me through this.**

 **Again, I want to give a shout out to RayssaUchiha again. I dedicate this chapter to you!**

 **R &R, please! Let me know how I'm fairing! Feel free to point out errors. I'm still working on editing this chapter and others. Helpful and polite feedback is most certainly welcome and appreciated.**

* * *

 **Chapter 30: The War Drums Sound**

Hermione contemplates letting Potter drown himself because Lupin isn't wrong. No one here has her best interest in mind. Not even Lupin himself, the most practical person she's met so far. With that in mind, though, Remus likely won't teach her anymore if Potter's dead, and Snape might find it more prudent to kill her and be done with it. Soo-jin can't use her as a weapon if she's dead. The idea of being put out of her own goddamned misery has appeal, but where's the dignity in that? Let HYDRA and Soo-jin win? She can't let that happen.

"Oh, Potter," she murmurs, shaking her head before diving into the water, grabbing him. She kicks off the bottom of the pool and uses the momentum to throw him out of the water. He hits the stone with a wet _thump._ He's not conscious. He doesn't sputter or cough, so he must've inhaled the moment he submerged to hurry things along.

As Hermione starts her compressions on his chest, and blowing air into his lungs. Potter vomits water and bile, tasting of strong coffee, into her mouth like a good boy. She spits and keeps on going until he sounds like he's hacking up a lung. She turns him over on his side and pats his arm.

"Deep breaths. You're fine."

He shakes his head, choking out a, "Fuck you." He bangs his forehead against the concrete. " _Jesus!_ Why did you save me?"

"Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

"Because she's dead!" He rolls onto his front, pounding his fists. If Hermione were a more emotionally in-tuned being, her chest might tighten, and she'd have difficultly swallowing because this man is truly devastated. The kind of turmoil that's so great, he'd rather die than live a second longer knowing "Ginny" is gone.

But Hermione isn't that type of person. She understands love and loss concerning _herself_ , but she needs to relearn how to apply that to others. It'll be a slow process. She's just barely relearning the basics of right and wrong, having always been fed that yeah, this particular action may sound wrong and even look wrong, but it's for the greater good and a brighter future. Hail fucking HYDRA.

"Oh. Well, in that case," Hermione gestures to the pool. "Drown away."

Potter glares at her, eyes bloodshot. He gets himself into a sitting position and bends his legs, hanging his arms off them, his head shaking. "I can't be here. Her mum. She doesn't know yet. How am I going to face her, Hermione? What am I going to tell her parents?"

This isn't something Hermione can help him with, so she asks, "Who's the crying kid?"

"Isabella. Her daughter. You saw her in Diagon Alley. I wasn't…" Potter chokes on his words and manages to get to his feet, like he realized something. "Nott's her godfather. She came running through his office Floo in hysterics. She saw..." He covers his mouth and closes his eyes. "I'm certain she saw her parents murdered."

"Do you think it's Soo-jin?"

"I don't know what to bloody think right now—"

"Well, is Ginny Pureblood?"

"Yeah, but it's _Ginny_ ," he says like she understands and then cares to elaborate at her blank stare. "Everyone loves Ginny—"

" _Obviously someone didn't._ If you go on to say her smile brightened the room—"

"It did," he provides miserably. "She so was beautiful. And smart and strong and incredibly sexy—"

"Maybe it was her husband because he found out you two were fucking."

Her accusation doesn't rile him. He stares up at the stained-glass creatures on the windows who weep along with him, strangely enough. "No, he's dead, too."

"Murder-suicide. A classic tale."

"The investigation is fresh. That'll probably be pitched, but I think whoever did it was trying to kill Isabella, too. Her dad wouldn't do that."

"So Soo-jin."

"It doesn't make sense. Soo-jin likes Ginny. They're friends—"

"You flew me to London on goddamned broom last night announcing to me and your closest buddies that Soo-jin's a murderous lunatic and out there killing Purebloods?"

"Ginny isn't like _those_ kind of Purebloods—"

"You said it yourself that non-influential ones were being offed—"

"She wouldn't kill Ginny. I _know_ that—"

"We're prepared to consider Soo-jin isn't alone. She may've not killed her—"

"—it'd be idiotic. Her father's the Minister of Magic."

"So she _is_ influential. She's Pureblood, the daughter of the Minister, having an affair, is apparently beautiful, smart, sexy, and likely rich. Jesus Christ, who _wouldn't_ want to kill this woman? She might as have had a target on her ass that said assassinate me."

Potter drops his head for a second. "God, you're awful." He stands up and takes his wand out, swirls it over his own person, instantly drying himself.

"What's the spell for that?" she asks.

He ignores her and stalks off, disappearing around the archway. Hermione waves her hand over herself, imagining herself dry. It works, but if she knew the spell, she may not have to concentrate so hard.

Throwing on her clothes, she runs after him, the crying growing louder. The portraits, albeit silenced, cover their ears. She reaches Potter when he enters Nott's study where there are Nott, Isabella in his arms, the man called Dean from the meeting last night, and a young woman Hermione doesn't recognize.

"Sorry," announces Potter, further entering the room. "I…I uh…needed a minute."

Hardly any of that was heard because of Isabella's screaming. The girl is simultaneously climbing Nott and bunching herself in a ball. Like she's trying to disappear into her dirty nightdress while burrowing herself deeper into his chest. For the sake of her, Hermione notices he's forcing himself to be the calm and steady one. He's not trying to drown himself at the news of what happened to his friends.

"Perhaps a Calming Draught for her," suggest the woman.

"She's saw her parents die. She's allowed to scream as loud and as long as she likes, Bell," replies Nott, coldly. His Adam's apple bobs, the only giveaway of his internal agony. Hermione brushes against her mind. The tentacles of his emotions are sharp, hot, and rigid. His anger outweighs his sadness.

"The sooner she relaxes, the sooner we can get her memories of what happened," explains Dean. "You know this, mate. Of course, she's allowed to be upset. But these moments are vital. It's still fresh in her. The longer we wait for her to tire herself, the hazier it'll be—"

A white, wispy dog-shape float-runs passed Hermione, making her flinch _just a little,_ and goes further into the room to stop in front of Potter.

" _Harry, please come. It's an emergency. Come to my mother's."_

Hermione narrows her eyes, unsure whether the see-through floating wolf thing was talking or if words were just radiating from it. She also wonders what the hell it is as the shape flounces away out of sight, back where it came from, she guesses.

"Jesus, Tonks." Potter runs a hand through his hair.

"Don't you dare leave, Potter," hisses Nott.

"She's too early to have gone into labor," sighs Potter. "Dean, go check in on Andy's house, would you? Katie, go back to Zabini's and work with the rest of the team. Scour the entire property. Interrogate all the elves and the portraits. If we don't even have at least one fucking suspect by dawn, then I'm sacking everyone!"

The woman called Bell stiffens and then relaxes, her dark eyes softening."I won't do Ginny wrong. I promise."

"Thanks, and Dean?" he turns to him. "Be quick. I'll want you back at the Zabini's, too."

"Yeah, mate. No problem." He disappears in a gulf of green flames at the hearth of the fireplace, and the women Bell follows behind. That…will definitely take time to get used to.

"I hate to do this." Potter takes out his wand. "We either need to force down a draught or Stun her."

"She'll tire herself out eventually—"

"The longer—"

"Bullocks! How is she going to forget? It's burned in her memory for the rest of her—"

"Her mind isn't fully developed. The memory is at risk of being hazy or even exaggerated—"

The two fight over the sobbing. Isabella's crying grates on Hermione's nerves. It's up there in the top five worst sounds in the world. There's something about the sound of a hysterical child that makes a person's skin crawl.

Without an ounce of guilt, Hermione slips into the little girl's mind, skating along on her neurons to prod at certain parts of her hypothalamus. Her cries quiet, and her tiny form begins to relax. Hermione takes advantage of the last few seconds of her conscious state and plows gently as she can through the last hour, carefully retreating once she's seen enough. By then, Isabella's eyes are closed and her breathing evens out.

"See. What'd I tell you?" Nott drapes her on his sofa like she's a faulty bomb. "Potter, push in _The Year of the Great Filth Invasion_. Behind my desk."

Potter goes behind the desk, studying the shelves. "Which edition?"

"The seventh."

Shoving in the book, the entire section retracts and slides behind it's neighboring set of shelves, revealing a what looks like a hokey, Romantic bird bath.

"What is that?" she asks.

"It's called a Pensieve," supplies Nott. He loosens his tie and folds up his sleeves right below his elbows. "Get the memory, Potter. Your better at extracting them. Reckon you won't let me have the first go, would you?"

Just then, Dean's head appears in the hearth of the fireplace. "I know you've got a lot on your plate tonight, Harry, but you're going to want to come over now. It's Teddy. Teddy Tonks. He's alive, mate. And he's here."

* * *

The opportunity to be alone with Nott has arrive. Both hands of the grandfather clock are on the twelve, and Potter's not back yet with the memory. Which is fine. Whatever. She knows who killed Ginny and her husband.

To say she and Nott have been waiting in awkward silence for him to return would be a lie. They've talked, low and quiet as to not stir Isabella. Apparently, Nott didn't always work for Potter. He lost his initial gig by getting caught up in Soo-jin and her extracurricular activities that involved tracking down Hermione and got demoted. Like, big time. Since the demotion, his wedding was called off, and his trust in Soo-jin diminished. She's hiding something, he's certain. He tells her she's been slagging about with Potter, and he's sure she's got another lover in Norway. Nott believes she's been sleeping with other men since the beginning of their relationship.

Hermione thinks he's bringing this up to her because he has no one to comfort him. He has no one immediate or true to him right now, and Soo-jin's absence makes this situation even more unbearable for him. It's a betrayal she's gone. It's a betrayal she's entertaining men who aren't him. He has no clue where her true fidelity lies. Regardless, with the evening he's had, a solid weight of resentment settles heavy inside him. Soo-jin's not there to even be a friend, and he hates her for it. He needs someone to hold him, rub his back, and tell him it's going to be okay, and the woman he once wanted to marry isn't here. She's never here. She's always gone, and Nott has to stay behind, suffering alone while keeping an eye on their pet project.

"I'm gong to tell you a couple of things, but you're not going to like them," she says

He waves his hands at her. "I challenge you to make my evening worse."

Hermione goes on to tell him the truth about Soo-jin. About her heritage, a _little_ bit about her time in Sokovia, and the real reason why she's spent more than a decade tracking down Hermione. She explains Soo-jin's true loyalty. Her ambition to better the world through sporadic and scattered mass genocide. But keep in mind, Hermione's not divulging anything to Nott because she thinks he deserves to know. Telling him the truth may present her an opportunity. A deal.

His hurt, anger, and indignation ripen at the news. Absolutely perfect for her. She sits down across from him at the desk and gives him a few minutes to stew before putting her hand over one of his clenched fists. "I have a proposition for you."

He shirks her hand, looking at it with distaste, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping where she touched. "Even I can't lie and say you're not pretty, but if anything, Soo-jin's betrayal on top of _your_ sins…the lot of you filth are abominable. You're blood-thirsty apes. Undeserving and unrefined and unworthy for the gift you _happened_ to be born with. Soo-jin and _these others_ you talk about want so badly to be equal and say they're just like anyone else, yet they murder. And you…you're a prime example of everything wrong with those fucking Muggles."

She throws him a pitying look. "I'm not proposing we kill time by having sex"

In the last two hours with everything that's happened, she knows she has no worth to him at this point. She doesn't know the details, but his family made a bad name for themselves. He's not an…Auror—whatever the hell that is—because he has genuine interest in making people safe. He got demoted from a high-ranking position in this world's ministry and could've quit but decided to take up Potter's sympathetic job offer. It was to improve his own image. At the beginning, he got involved with Soo-jin for various reasons, none of them for love. One of them being because she was a highly beloved "Muggle-Born" and public figure here in England. Not so much back home, but she had some pull with highly influential folk apparently. And for someone like Nott who wants nothing more to get in society's good graces, she fit his tastes. Plus, she's beautiful, brilliant, ambitious, and harbored an incredible tale she and him could sell to the press, gaining for more than just money.

A story such as hers splashed on the newspaper or in a book would have the masses sing him praise. Forget he's a bigot and so caught up in his own self-interest, he hadn't noticed he was sleeping with a terrorist; people would be in awe of him and his effort of finding this monstrous, brainwashed witch who'd been wronged by Muggles.

Hermione doesn't know this culture or society, but she figures people, magical or not, love a sob-story. They love drama. They love cookie-cutter stories and with the help of a money-hungry reporter, hers could be sawed into one. Poor little Muggle-Born girl, thrown into an asylum by her parents and then trafficked and sold into a terrorist organization where she was tortured and exploited. Potter, another gem of this place, is personally seeing she gets the teaching and rehabilitation she needs as to overcome what those nasty, murderous Muggles did to her.

In the space of an hour, Nott no longer sees her as his golden ticket. His best friend is dead, and his ex-fiancée is helping rid the world of _his_ people. The same people that share his ideations and status. His self-interest dwindles, and his instinct for self-perseveration surprisingly doesn't outweigh the needs and wants of the tiny human slumbering on his couch. He'll do anything to protect her from the same fate that befell her parents.

"What are you proposing then?"

"Aside from removing my brand and killing Soo-jin—"

"She's not _all_ madness. She's nothing more than one single fucking witch a part of it all. I'll take care of that fucking whore soon enough." He pulls out a silver case from his drawer behind the desk and fishes out a cigarette. He fails to light the cigarette with his lighter, so Hermione takes pity on him and leans over the desk, touching the end of the stick, igniting it.

"Smoke?" he offers the case.

He lights her a cigarette with the tip of his, and she takes it. The inhale makes her eyes sting a bit, but her shoulders relax. Unfiltered and unapologetic in the taste. It takes her back to Moscow, rooming with Natalia, way before Barton had the nerve to sense her underlying desire to be a good person. The rare occasions she and Nat wouldn't be working but at "home" together where they'd smoke and flirt, and Nat would get a little drunk on vodka martinis and Hermione would pretend she would, too. They'd fool around sometimes, and by morning, the apartment would smell of Sobranies, vodka, and sex.

"First of all, I'm sorry about your friend," she says to Nott, scratching her bottom lip with her thumb. "You two must've been close."

"Don't pretend you give a shit or pull a farce that your soul isn't anything but damned. You're not sorry. How could you be. You feel nothing. You leveled that property in Kabul—"

She cuts him off by rolling her eyes. "Kabul wasn't even my worst. And you're right. I'm not sorry about your friend. I'm not even sorry that little girl will never see her parents again. And I'm not sorry about what happened in Kabul. I had a mission. It was saving someone I was close to because believe it or not, I can _feel_."

"When you choose to, I suppose."

She dips her chin in consideration. "Perhaps that's something we have in common, you and I." Taking a drag of her cigarette, she says, "Now back to the proposition. I know exactly who killed your friend. It wasn't Soo-jin. That'd be too fucking convenient, wouldn't it? I will tell you, but you have to do something for me in return."

"How could you—"

"Your folk call it… _Occlumency_ according to those books in your library. We just call it mind-reading. Telepathy. I peeked inside her head a little. I was gentle."

His eyes narrow. "You know all of four people since you got here. Unless you can draw me a face, I doubt you can give me shit."

She shrugs. "I only know the first name. Should I tell you what I want now, or do you want to think about it? Just so you know, my offer expires the moment Potter returns. We don't need him complicating things. Your rage and my skills are enough."

"You don't have to convince me you're good at killing people."

"Let me convince you then, that I'm fairly good at not getting caught. The bodies you found in the Middle East are just a handful in comparison. The quicker you agree, Nott, the quicker your friend's killer meets his own sticky end."

He stomps out his cigarette in the ashtray. "What is that you want?"

She smiles brilliantly. "An outing."

* * *

 **London**

Her curls are piled atop of her head and stuffed in a cloche hat. Nott's glasses sit on the bridge of her nose. The man follows her closely into London's Internet City café. She scoots herself behind a screen, lowers the glasses to the tip of her nose, and promptly creates a brand-new Google account. She skips passed all the bullshit that's asked of her, so she can send an encrypted message in to Everett Ross. She can't risk sending anything to Nat or Steve whose private servers are under constant surveillance by HYDRA.

 _How all is lost. How you dance, race, abbreviate._

The message itself is sloppy, and her username is too obvious, but she hasn't time to be cleverly obscure. Nott is allowing her this on the promise of being quick. She takes a picture from Google images of a patriotic eagle and manipulates it to an artist's rendition of the mythical hydra. When Ross opens the email, he'll see an eagle bleed into the hydra.

She adds one more thing.

 _O philosophical mind, O mind of paper, I need a squirrel finishing his mild dash, across the highway, rushing up his green ungoverned hillside_

"That's enough," hisses Nott. "If we want to get this all done before Potter get's back, we have to go now."

She presses send and _barely_ allows Nott to grab her elbow and drag her out of the café.

* * *

Across the Atlantic, in Virginia, Everett Ross splashes water on his face and gets ready to shave. In the bedroom, his girlfriend is supposed to be asleep. Instead, she's quietly scrolling through his emails and text messages. A new email pops up on his personal Google account.

*Laura opens up the email and smirks. It does take her a few minutes to decrypt the message and locate where it was sent from. Even so, Ross is just finishing up his shave and getting ready for his shower. Abegglen must've been pressed for time. Sloppy, indeed. She forwards the message and information to Sitwell.

 _She hasn't left London and without a doubt will be contacting MI-6 ASAP and setting up a walk-in. Be quick._

 _-LB_

Brown puts back the phone and gets herself comfortable, pretending to be asleep for when Ross comes in, kisses her on the forehead, and tells her he's heading in early. Like always, she'll plead with him to stay a little longer. She'll fix him breakfast, blow him, a 'please just stay'. He never does, leaving her to feed the goldfish and walk the dog before she needs to get ready for work.

* * *

The moment they step out into the open air, Hermione says, "Dennis."

"What?" asks Nott.

"The man who killed your friends. Dennis is his name."

"No. No, he couldn't have-"

She takes advantage of his shocked state and slams her foot down on his instep, thrusting her elbow into his lower gut and then taking off in a run. She runs across streets and ducks into alleyways until she feels comfortable to throw herself into a phone booth. She picks up the phone, dials, and waits for the line to connect.

" _Satin n' Silk is closed and will reopen at 8 o'clock—"_

"Stirred, not shaken," interrupts Hermione.

" _Very well. Your call is being connected."_

After a few moments, _"This better be bloody well good to be calling me at this hour!"_

"I need to arrange a rendezvous. I'm a walk-in."

" _From where?"_

Hermione hesitates, unable to say HYDRA. She doesn't know this woman on the phone. Her loyalties. There are multiple HYDRA members in agencies across the world. She can't say HYDRA. She can't say S.H.I.E.L.D, either.

"From where?" the woman repeats.

"Bolshoi Theatre," she whispers, flinching. Something's hit the glass of the phone booth. Hermione's eyes narrow and then widen when seeing an arrow-like _thing_ suctioned to the surface, lights flashing and quiet beeping coming from it. She drops the phone and bails, breaking the glass and rolling onto the sidewalk. The phone booth explodes, the momentum powerful enough to lift and throw her several feet. The vehicles on the road crash into each other from the distraction. Her raincoat is on fire. She shirks it and takes off running. There are cuts on her hands and glass in her hair, but there are worse things.

Barton is after her.

S.H.I.E.L.D. likely gave him shoot-to-kill orders. This isn't about bringing her in. HYDRA wouldn't risk that. They wouldn't risk her getting the chance to tell the truth. They didn't send one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top assassins to chat her up, and if he was briefed about her encounter with Steve and what happened in Russia, then he'll know to keep his distance from her if he can help it.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. In her peripheral, she sees quick movement. She ducks and rolls, not being able to prevent the tip of the arrow slicing her from the corner of her mouth to the top of her ear. Blood spills down her face onto her clothes, and the arrow embeds itself into the building beside her. The few people around her are running towards the crashed vehicles, making sure those inside are all right

She stands to run and disappear anywhere else that isn't here but is slammed into by Nott. His body maneuvers hers into the nearby alleyway, and they appear back inside his office, Isabella still asleep on the couch. The elf, Lilo, is placing a blanket on her. He acknowledges Nott with a nod and then leaves the room

Hermione falls onto all fours, heart pounding and ears ringing from the bomb. She squeezes her eyes closed and then beats her fist on the floor, cracking a plank of polished wood. She was so fucking close, and they were so quick to find her. Obviously, HYDRA would have someone stationed here. London is her last know location to them. They found her so quickly because…the email. They're monitoring Ross's accounts because of course they are. He and Hermione worked together, and he's CIA. Sitwell's not a complete idiot. He and Pierce would know she'd seek him out. She did just that right before she disappeared. That phone got left behind.

Nott pays her no mind as she abuses and bleeds on his floor. He paces and massages his chin, shaking his head. He's talking, but she can't hear the words. She could read his lips but what's the point? There's no point to anything. Her email got intercepted, and she's still branded and bound to Soo-jin.

Potter finds her this way when coming through the hearth. Already ashen and disoriented, he grabs Nott by the lapels of his shirt, bellowing, "What the hell did you do to her?"

His words sound like he's shouting them into a barrel far away from her. Sighing, she brings her arm up to her face, her sleeve catching the downpour. Nott gently places his hands on Potter's. "It's been a hell of night for all of us, and I won't be responsible for my actions if you don't get your hands off me."

Potter releases him and goes to her, crouching down to pull her hair from her face. "Move your arm. Let's see the damage."

She shows him, he sucks in a breath. "That's going to scar something fierce if we don't get that taken care of." He looks to Nott. "Know any healers taking patients at this time of night?"

"We've got more to worry about than her pretty face. She told me...Potter, she said it was Creevey who killed Blaise and Ginny."

"I know."

" _You know."_

" _I know_." He shoots Nott a furious, impatient glare. "But there's nothing I can do about it right now, and neither can you. What we can do is clean up this mess and fix her face."

Nott storms to the fireplace, disappearing in a bloom of green flames, only to return five minutes later with the pale, blond man from Madam Malkin's. He's in a night-robe and has slippers on his feet. He's got a small black, leather satchel thrown across his torso. His eyes are bloodshot, but his hair is perfectly set for a two o'clock in the morning house-visit.

Potter lets out a pained sound at the sight of him. "Whatever. You'll do."

Malfoy pauses when seeing Isabella asleep on the couch. "Is everything all right, mate?"

Nott rubs his eyes. "No, but we'll talk about it soon enough. I've got a bleeding woman you need to take care of."

"Which you failed to say _how_ she got this way," hisses Potter.

"Why don't you ask her? It's not like her tongue got chopped off."

Malfoy offers her his hand, and she shows him how bloody they are. He joins her on the floor and opens in satchel, putting on a pair of gloves. "Don't move your face. I'm going to congeal the flow." He waves his wand at her, and the slash instantly hardens. Malfoy carefully uses gauze and a mint-green ointment from a vial to clean up the blood from her face and neck.

"Is the wound from a curse?" he asks, throwing Potter an accusatory side-glance.

"From an arrow," she says stiffly, careful not to move her mouth to much. The slightest tug of muscle would rip the newly formed scab right open.

Malfoy's brows arch and throws a questioning look at the other two men. "Interesting."

Potter looks to Nott who shrugs. "Look, I'm hearing this for the first time. I literally found her this way when she tried to ditch me in Muggle London."

"Muggle London?" balks Potter. He badly finger-combs his hair. "Jesus, you left the kid? To do what?"

"You left Isabella?" asks Malfoy to Nott. He looks at the child again. "Why is she here, anyway? Where's Blaise? What the hell is going on?"

"You leave Scorpius with Mipsy all the bloody time," Nott justifies.

"I feel like I'm in a bad play," mutters Hermione. She snaps her fingers in front of Malfoy's face, getting his attention, and then points to her face. "Fix this, please. If I'm ever going to score a lay again based off my personality alone, I'm in serious shit."

Malfoy lets out strangled chuckle, throwing her a strange look. "Your eyes alone could stop a bloke dead in his tracks. Um..." His cheeks pink, and he shakes his head. The arrogance and poise he played while Malkin's is long gone. "Sorry. It's 17, right? Sorry, that wasn't appropriate. I'm going to...just," he soaks a cotton swap with the contents of another vial, this liquid a clear-brown. "A little essence of dittany."

Immediately, her scab begins to crack and flake off. An attractive sight, no doubt, but she can feel the baby soft skin, plump and fresh. When she goes to touch her cheek, Malfoy's already tending to her temple and ear. Unfortunately, she can still feel the deep divot, but she can show a little patience. The man and his bag of goodies clearly aren't finished.

The finishing touch is a rich, fungus-smelling cream that Malfoy rubs deep into the tissue of her face and ear. It's uncomfortable and awkward as hell, she's about to tell him to fuck off and let her do this part herself. Give her the cream and she can apply it, but then he's finished and he's packing up his empty little bottles as well as removing his gloves. He clears his throat and without looking at her, he says, "Your face is now unevenly freckled. Spending an afternoon out in the sun should help things along. Any phantom pains?"

Moving the muscles of her cheek and pinching her upper ear, she tells him no.

Amazing. Absolutely amazing. Yeah, she heals fast, and technology and medicine are improving everyday, but five minutes ago, she was bleeding profusely and was planning on being disfigured.

Malfoy takes one more thing out of his Mary Poppin's bag, offering it to her. "As a precaution," he says. "Blood-Replenishing potion."

"Uh...thanks," she replies. "Do I, like,...app-"

"You drink it, Hermione," interrupts Potter. "You know that."

"How would she kn-" Nott gets interrupted by Potter elbowing him.

"So 17 _isn't_ your name," says Malfoy, smirking and offering his hand again. "Hermione. Is your mother's name Helen?"

She chuckles mirthlessly, not taking his hand. "It _was_. And it's 17." She gets to her feet. "Thank you."

Malfoy stands. "You know, the Congealing Charm is fairly standard. I'm surprised you didn't cast one on yourself." He shoots a peeved expression at both Nott and Potter. "Or they could've helped, at least. They teach first-year Auror recruits that spell."

"Men are helpless." She eyes him carefully. "Most are, anyway. And my wand broke in London. Getting a new one will be the first thing I do tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll-"

"Stay!" shout Nott and Potter in unison.

"I've got to feed Cat."

"Cat?" asks Potter, frowning.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "The cat you bought me."

"You named it Cat?" he says in revulsion.

"I thought it was terribly appropriate. What else would I have named it? Shark? Bear? _Goose?_ "

"Am I still needed...?" Malfoy gestures to the fireplace.

"Yes," says Nott.

"No," says Potter.

Jesus, it's going to be a long night.

* * *

Clint scours the alley where he saw Milas disappear. He returns to the street and back to the alley. He looks up the sides of the building, and scratches the back of his head. He hit her. He knows he did. There's blood on the ground, but she's gone. Disappeared into thin air. Some man collided into her, Clint saw that much, and they both disappeared.

His eyes...they must be playing tricks on him. That and he hasn't had more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time since Abegglen's betrayal.

"Well, shit," he murmurs, getting out his phone and dialing Hill.

 _"Is it done?"_

"If it makes you feel better, I hit her. Bad news is, she's gone. I don't know what the hell happened, but she disappeared. Like _literally_. Into nothing. Her and some guy. Didn't get a good look at his face. Caucasian and brown-haired. That's all I got for you."

 _"I was hoping you'd get this taken care of. According to Fury, Nat's making plans. It scares me, but it might not be such a bad idea."_

"Maybe I'll join her."

 _"Fury knew you'd say that, and he's not giving you his blessing._ _"_

"C'mon, Maria."

 _"She's on forced LOA. Fury won't be able to stop what she does with that free time once she's healed enough to go looking for her."_ She sighs. _"Maybe she should have this, Clint. Yeah, it would've been great if you got Abegglen, but in reality, I think this one belongs to Nat."_

Clint looks down at the blood, frowning. "What if she doesn't find her?"

 _"She can't hide forever."_

"Yeah, she can," he counters. "I only caught Nat because she wanted to be caught. People like them. If Abegglen does pop up on the radar again, I doubt it'll be here. Twice in a week. She won't risk it again. She'll go deep."

Clint ends the call and gives the blood spatters one last look before throwing his hood over his shoulder. He jumps onto a garbage bin and scales the side of the building, pulling off his own disappearing act.

To be Continued...

* * *

 **A/N: *Not to be confused with Laura Barton. Laura Brown is listed as a HYDRA agent on Marvel comic's HYDRA member list.**


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Wahoo! Another chapter and fairly soon after the last one! Thanks to my vacation, I was able to throw myself into this next chapter and get it up and running. Hope you guys like it. A big thanks to my readers, reviewers, and followers. Let me know what you think of the chapter. I worked hard on it and am sort of proud of it.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 31: Burning the Midnight Oil**

It's coming up on five in the morning. Nott and Potter left through the fireplace a while ago for "work." She and Isabella are in the tearoom, the little girl asleep on the sofa. Malfoy is there, too. He sits across from her at the table. Just the other day, she had breakfast here with Soo-jin, Nott, and Potter. Everything was so complicated then. Sensory overload. Now, Hermione feels like she's drowning in everyone else's complications along with her own. It's been one thing after another since she arrived here, and she's almost on the verge of a break down.

And that terrifies her. Her training can only take her so far. Her training tells her to kill anyone who wants to thrust their issues on her, and that's not an option right now. Kill Malfoy and maybe the kid, too? Then what?

Each and every problem life chucked at her, she was able to handle. She was able to walk away a stronger and wiser person. With her forearm exposed and Malfoy muttering profanities to himself while wavig his stick at the irritated markings on her skin, Hermione accepts she's can't walk or kill her way out of this one. She's stuck. It was risky and foolish to strike that deal with Nott. HYDRA's fast. It's practical they'd have agents stationed in England, waiting for her to make another blip on their radar. On top of that, they can access _all_ computer-based cameras. Hermione can't see herself going out again and succeeding. She'll die. Probably from the business end of an arrow, complimentary of Clint Barton.

"Now why did Soo-jin curse you again?" asks Malfoy. "Theo didn't say."

Hermione shrugs, seeing no reason explaining Soo-jin to him.

Malfoy casts a spell, further inflaming the marks. She hisses and knocks back another swig of the drink which tastes strongly of Pincer. Malfoy kindly confiscated the bottle from Nott's wine cellar which apparently has more than just earthy reds to accolade last night's roasted lamb the guests didn't eat because they were inconveniently murdered.

The exhausted, angry blond man has been tinkering on her curse for an hour with the help of the book Snape found for her in Nott's library. Some spells do absolutely nothing while others enflame the sigils and etch deeper into the tissue. It fucking hurts, and she's starting to bleed. At the sight of blood, Malfoy sets down his wand and slams the book shut.

"I'm making it worse."

"I don't care how it looks. Keep going—"

"It's making the curse stronger." He massages his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. "You need a Curse-Breaker, and who's to say that will work? Binding spells like these often have a failsafe in them. Simply removing it could trigger an onset of problems upon your person. For instance, a quick death…if you're lucky. Your entire body slowly rotting away, starting with your arm."

"What about cutting off—"

He cuts her off with a disapproving frown. "Forgive me, but do they not teach Defense Against the Dark Arts in the States? Do they teach…anything? I almost want to diagnose you with a learning disability, though I peg you far from uneducated. The curse isn't in _your_ arm. It's all over you. The spell's brand had to be put somewhere. Cutting off a limb wouldn't get rid of it but force the runes to appear somewhere else."

She pays his comments no mind, sniffing the rim of the bottle and taking another drink. It's as close to being buzzed as she'll ever get given the high alcohol percentage.

"If you're going to drink all that, you need to eat something."

He's terribly astute and obnoxiously stable-minded for someone who just found out his best friend died. He's certainly one of those people who busy themselves after a tragedy. Not wanting to deal with the big things, they'll drown themselves in more tangible projects. Before going off with Potter, Nott offhandedly told Malfoy that Soo-jin's "a full raging nutter" and cursed her. After that, Malfoy poured himself a very large brandy from Nott's private stash found in the desk, and then promptly downed the whole glass in one gulp. He then levitated Isabella and told Hermione to follow them into the tearoom because he was going to break the curse.

He couldn't remove her curse, therefore, feeding her sounds simpler.

"Gladly," she supplies. She's not proud when it comes to eating. The vodka can only do so much and a cigarette or five could stave off hunger for another hour, but Malfoy hasn't offered any to her like Nott had.

He snaps his fingers, and Lilo appears, the poor elf. His regular rest hours keep getting interrupted. Ten minutes later, an overflowing English fry-up is served on a platter along with black coffee and orange juice. Hermione wastes no time in scraping a hearty severing of everything (except the hockey pucks that is black pudding) onto her plate before tucking in, shoveling sausage and buttery, crispy toast into her mouth.

Malfoy stares at her, his red, glassy eyes narrowed. His nose is starting to turn red. Like he's about to start crying. Fed her, he did. Now what? Eat? Lilo prepared enough for both of them, but if he's not distracting himself by eating in a timely fashion, then whatever. More for her.

He chuckles damply. "You have quite the appetite."

He wants to simply talk then to keep busy, she sees. All right. She'll do him this favor, so she's not bothered by his waterworks.

"I'm hungry pretty much all the time."

"You're not diabetic," he concludes, as she guzzles her glass of orange juice. "Hypoglycemic, possibly."

"Mm. Sure." She shrugs, setting down the glass and stabbing her second sausage with her fork.

He dips his chin. "And how was it that your face befell an arrow? Why were you and Theo in Muggle London?"

"How was it you were so prompt in showing up for a home visit at such an hour?" Her lips form into a smirk. With her free hand, she reaches over and touches the hickey on his neck. "You must've been awake already."

His cheeks color. He clearly distracts himself in _other_ ways, too.

"I was entertaining a late-night visitor. You need not shame me for it."

"You were asking hard questions. I had to deviate."

His hand forms into a fist. "Was it to do Blaise's killer?"

She sets down her fork. "Another hard question."

"Do you know who did it?"

She shakes her head. "Mr. Malfoy, even if I did, what would it solve if I told you now? What would you do with that information?"

He opens his mouth and then shuts it. He leans back in his chair, bringing a finger to his lips and stares into space.

"Would you try to kill this person?"

Malfoy snaps his head towards her, aghast. His eyes drift to his hand that's still clenched. Hermione surmises he's imagining the deeds he could commit with it. The vengeance he could have if he allowed himself to seek it. So unlike Nott. He was more than ready to kill the unknown person who murdered his friends. He's killed before and knows he can do it again.

Hermione can read minds, and even if she couldn't, it's obvious Malfoy's never taken a life. He's a doctor or healer or whatever this place calls medicine folk. He's likely taken a vow to never purposely invoke physical harm to anyone if he could help it.

A whimper comes from the sofa which soon turns into sobs. Isabella sits up, looking around and spotting Malfoy. She flies off the sofa, screaming like a banshee, and launches herself at him. He gathers her into his arms, holding her tight while she screams words that consists of "mummy" and "daddy". It really is too bad. If she grows up crazy, it won't be a wonder, that's for sure.

"Tell Theo when he gets back, I took Isabella over to my house!" yells Malfoy over the screaming. "Unless…you'd like to come over? I have…books!"

"Books?!"

"Yes." He looks pointedly at her forearm. "Many on curses! Some on Binding Spells, I reckon!"

"More than Nott's collection?!"

"I have three estates, so yes!" He nudges his chin in the direction of the book on the table. "But bring that one for good measure!"

Hermione grabs the book and follows him to the office fireplace. This time around, she's more prepared for the journey, and she absolutely does not fall on all fours, hacking up a lung this time.

Even though she wants to.

Malfoy's office is nice like Nott's. Unnecessarily big and rather archaic in design. There's a Pensieve out in the open instead of hidden behind a trick bookshelf. In fact, there are no books at all. Just glass cabinets stocked full of vials and jars.

"Open up the cabinet right there if you would." He points before adjusting Isabella in his arms. "Take out the ice-blue one and uncap it."

Hermione does so cautiously, teetering when catching a potent whiff that can only be described as chamomile, fermented kava root, and freshly spilt, warm blood. It's sickening, her head feels foggy, and her limbs grow heavy. Her stomach churns, and she almost gags.

She sets it on the table, and he pats Isabella's back. "All right, love, you've lost a lot of fluid. You need to have a drink." He grabs the vial, puts the exposed rim up to her face, and she miraculously doesn't throw up. In fact, her crying stops, and her body grows slack. She doesn't fall asleep, though her eyelids droop. She shivers and snuggles deeper into Malfoy. Whimpers fall lazily out of her mouth, and that's it. She's calm, awake, and almost silent.

He doesn't force the vial down her mouth, even asking Hermione to return it to its place. He snaps his finger, and an elf appears. A girl elf, given the soiled and frayed pink pillowcase she's wearing and tattered pink bow securing her very few hair strands atop of her football-shaped head.

"Pumpkin juice in a baby bottle," he orders.

The elf returns, and Malfoy holds Isabella like she's an infant and plunges the nipple of the bottle into her mouth. Hermione looks away, feeling uncomfortable, awkwardly nestles the book of Bulgarian babble to her chest. "Your library. Where is it?"

He snaps his finger again, the third time in the space of an hour to summon an elf. He doesn't call out its name and gives very basic and demanding instructions without so much as a thank you. Hermione's reminded of how Soo-jin introduced her to Lilo. Like he's a dear friend to her. Soo-jin may be a terrorist, but she's not above showing respect for "the help" unlike Theo and definitely unlike Malfoy.

The elf returns, and Hermione decides she's going to be nice to it…or _her_. At this point, it's doubtful Lilo will warm up to her anytime soon. Her breakfast platter was ice cold, and the sausage was undercooked. The orange juice was sickeningly sweet, she could feel the grit of added sugar on her tongue. The eggs shined salmonella bright, and the bacon was overly cooked and brittle. She still scarfed it down like she hadn't a meal in days, swallowing that little elf's distaste for her bite-by-bite.

At some point in time, if Malfoy really wants to help her out by giving her access to his libraries, she may need to rely on this elf for things. Hermione crouches down and offers her hand.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself a second ago. You were quick. I'm…Hermione."

Malfoy makes a confused and unattractive sound. "What are you doing?"

The elf gapes at her hand and then shoots a nervous look at Malfoy. "Does Master need Mipsy for anything more?"

"Mipsy," says Hermione, taking back her hand slowly. "I really like that name. It suits you perfectly."

A rose hue colors her sunken cheeks. "Master's friend is most kind."

"You can call me Hermione—"

"Miss 17, Mipsy. You will call her that—"

" _She_ can call me Hermione," she says to Malfoy and then looks to the elf again, "but if you insist on being formal, then Miss Hermione will do. I would like to see the library. Could you take me there?"

Her head bobs up and down. "Would Miss Hermione like a cup of tea when we get there?"

"I would love a cup of tea, Mipsy. Thank you."

Tears welled up in the elf's eyes, and her chin trembled. "Mipsy will also provide a plate of fresh biscuits. Does Miss Hermione like chocolate?" She ducks her head shyly. "Young Master says I make the best chocolate biscuits."

"Miss Hermione _loves_ chocolate and if your master would be obliged, I would love to have a companion while I'm in the library. He's far too busy with Isabella right now. Mr. Malfoy?" She throws a sheepish but coy smile at him. Her eyes widen, and she chews on her bottom lip. "Would you oblige having Mipsy help me?"

He obliges because he's too easy, and Hermione knows, despite only being around her for all of three or so hours, he wants to have sex with her. Like desperately. Even if she couldn't read his mind, it's only obvious.

Mipsy guides her out of the office, and they walk forever. The estate is gigantic. Bigger than Nott's and eerie has hell. The elf quietly warns her to be as silent as possible through the corridors as to not wake the portraits. They're not silenced like the ones at Nott's. They snore, grunt, and even scratch their bellies as they sleep.

Much of the house, from what Hermione can see, isn't in use. They walk through an open drawing room where the furniture is covered by white sheets and the drawn curtains are thick, heavy, and black. The walls are bare. There's also a ballroom, empty and lifeless, and like the drawing room, no portraits. All the doors they pass are shut, and some corridors are chilly while others are stifling hot.

They arrive to the library, and Hermione stays at the entrance for a minute to take it all in. Half the size of an American football stadium is what greets her. Mipsy snaps her fingers, and the area is bathed in light coming from several candlelit, crystal chandeliers. Head tilted back and mouth open, she enters the library and sets her book on the table that is comically to small and unpolished for such a regal setting.

The library itself is as many stories as the estate and built in an oval shape. There are three rolling ladders for each level of shelves. There are four levels. Hermione feels incredibly small and strangely enough, put out by how many books there are because how many of them is she going to have to go through to get rid of the curse? And Malfoy says he has _three_ estates.

"What kind of books does Miss Hermione need?" asks Mipsy.

"Um…right." She clears her throat. "I need books on curse-breaking. Getting rid of Binding Spells. That sort of thing."

Mipsy points to the fourth level of shelves and then opens her tiny palms and makes a tugging gesture. Several books come flying from the shelves and land neatly on the table.

"Right. Wonderful," says Hermione, sitting down at the table.

Mipsy curtseys, bowing her head low. "Mipsy will bring you a cup of tea and plate of iced, chocolate biscuits."

"I would actually love a cup of hot, black coffee if you don't mind."

She shakes her head, her ears flapping. "Mipsy doesn't mind at all, Miss Hermione. Mipsy will also bring a platter of fruit."

The elf disappears with a soft pop, and Hermione gets to work. By the time Mipsy returns, Hermione's already eliminated three books and two of them she can't open without her fingertips blistering.

"Mipsy, why can't I open these books?" she asks, pointing to the two culprits.

Her mouth shapes into an o and her eyes nearly bug out of her head. "Ooooh. Master has never brought home a Mud-Muggle before. Not once, Miss Hermione. Master should've warned Miss Hermione or not taken her here at all. The estate doesn't like filth, and many of the books have been spelled to burn the likes of Miss Hermione. Mipsy will go get Master, and maybe—"

"No, no. That's all right. I understand." At this moment right now, Hermione doesn't want Malfoy knowing she's Muggleborn. He might not be so eager in helping her break Soo-jin's curse. "Those books are all in French, anyway. Are there any in Bulgarian? Something similar to my own book."

"Oh," she looks to the side, troubled. "Master's summoning Mipsy."

Hermione's left alone with the racist books and Mipsy's offerings. She pokes at the one of the offending books to get it further away from her before eyeing the platter of goodies. Cautiously, she taps the porcelain kettle incase that's judging her heritage, too, before pouring herself a cup of coffee.

Once the platter is only crumbs from the cookies and juice from the strawberries and apple slices, she gets back to work. She goes through the remaining books she can touch and then climbs the rolling ladders to the fourth level. She peeks passed the wooden railing and down the corridor. From here, she sees a hallway with seven doors, all of them closed except for a set of double ones. That one is at the end of the hallway and only slightly ajar.

Hermione half expects a set of twin girls to appear and demand she play with them.

She hasn't seen _The Shining_. She hasn't seen many films, but everyone knows _that_ scene.

Smiling to herself about how fucking terrifying the house is, she skims spines, touching them and muttering _ow_ every three or four books. Finally coming across one with a useful title and doesn't burn her, flips it open, nearly dropping it at the sound of a blood-curdling scream coming from a child. Hermione grips the ladder and places the book back, staring down the hallway at the open double doors. That's where it came from and having become very familiar with Isabella's sounds, the scream didn't come from her.

"Daddy, no! Wake up! Please wake up!"

Hermione climbs over the railing and runs down the hallway, barreling through the door into an unused, dusty bedroom. The canopy bed, furniture, and vanity all draped in white cloth. Through the dark, she sees a bit of light shining beneath what could be a closet or en suite bathroom door. She twists the handle, the door creaking and startling the boy she met at Madam Malkin's. He's on his knees, hovering over his lifeless father.

"He won't wake up. Why won't he wake up? He promised. He promised he wouldn't go to sleep forever like Mummy. He promised."

The adjoining room is an impressively sized walk-in closet, the wracks populated with ball gowns, lush cloaks, and garment bags. A hundred or more pairs of women's shoes line the crisp, cedar shelves. Pearls and lace and jewels sewn into them. In the middle of the closet is an antique Marie Antionette armoire.

Moving her eyes away from a cream-colored set of satiny pumps. She offers her hand, beckoning the boy to come closer to her. "We're going to find Mipsy and then go over to a friend's house, okay?"

Goddammit, what is she going to tell Nott?

And Jesus Christ, where's Isabella?

Obviously, the boy doesn't fling himself into her arms and soak her shirt in tears. He doesn't budge from his spot, so she crawls towards him and wraps her arms around him because maybe that's what adults—who haven't been conditioned to be inconvenienced by children—do for kids when they're distraught. They hold them. And rock them gently or something.

Patting Scorpius's back and staring down at Malfoy over his little shoulder, Hermione frown deepens. The dead man's flaxen hair begins to grow, curl, and darken into a rich shade of crimson. His lifeless gray eyes turn vacant green, and his sharp features soften. His body shortens and contorts into a female figure. The clothes are replaced with a black body suit, and blood drips from now full, reddish-pink, parted lips. Red hair, matted with fresh blood, fanned out beneath her tilted head.

Hermione's eyes squeeze shut. It's not possible. She's dreaming. She fell asleep at the table downstairs or at Nott's place. This isn't real. Natalia isn't really here. She's not really dead.

Nails digging into her own palm, she opens her eyes and Natalia's lifeless body morphs into another being. This one very much alive and mobile. Hermione's breath catches in her throat, and she forcibly moves Scorpius towards the closet door, shoving him out into the bedroom just when the Winter Soldier grabs her shoulder and slams her into the carpet. His metallic hand wraps around her neck, squeezing.

"You were supposed to kill me," he hisses. "You were supposed to set me free."

"Let go of her!"

The Soldier jerks his head up, distracted. He let's go of Hermione and starts towards Malfoy who's decidedly alive and well. More or less. The soldier's features shift into a hideous, creature-like man the closer he gets to him. A completely hairless scalp, two slits for nostrils, greenish-gray skin, and glowing red eyes.

"I still own you, young Draco. I always will," it says, the voice high-pitched and breathy.

Malfoy flourishes his wand and says something like 'ridiculous' to the _thing_ , and the _thing_ shifts again. This time into a near replica of Malfoy, only older looking and sporting longer hair.

"You're a disappointment." The man's tone is icy. His eyes narrowed in disgust. "Since your wife's death, you've thrown yourself at cheap, low-class women, and let your ambition waste away into nothing. Your mother is dying, and what have you to show for it aside from a string of broken-hearted social climbers. Need I remind you your mother is fighting for her li—."

Malfoy waves his wand more aggressively, and the figure launches backwards into the armoire, the door clicking shut.

As for Hermione.

Hermione…is still on the floor where the Soldier left her, her hand limp on her throat, and her brow furrowed. What. The fuck. Just. Happened?

She blinks, perturbed at the stinging wetness threatening to spill over. She swallows, and her throat kind of hurts. Not badly. Whatever that was, it wasn't the Soldier and sure as hell wasn't Natalia.

Malfoy's beside her, sitting on the floor and touching her face and wiping her tears away with his thumb. Everything about this is so…ridiculous. She begins to laugh _hysterically_ , and he stares at her like she's gone mad, though the corner of his lip does quirk.

"Do you always react this way after encountering a boggart?"

"A _boggart_?" Her laughter increases because that's such a funny, made up word and so perfect for this funny, made-up world. "A boggart. And you said…you said _ridiculous_ to get rid of it. Oh, my God. It's all so ridiculous! Everything is!"

"Hermione," he says, his tone is gentle and reproving, and it cracks her. Almost fucking breaks her wide open. Her breath catches in her chest, and her next bout of mirth comes out as choking. She clamps down her teeth, and her chest stutters. More wetness traitorously sneaks down her cheeks. Just a few droplets, but for God's sake, she just saw Natalia dead thirty seconds ago, and it was the worst thing. The absolutely worst thing she could possibly imagine. To make it even more awful, she changed into the Soldier, and he tried to kill her.

"S-Seventeen," she stutters. A shiver overtakes her, and she shudders.

"You're going into shock." He opens a wooden trunk behind him and pulls out a blanket, wrapping the scratchy, wool material around her. "Lay down for a minute. Focus on regulating your breathing."

Hermione lays down where Nat had been, and she closes her eyes, trying to erase the image from her brain.

Malfoy lifts her feet, putting them on his lap. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've never encountered a boggart before…or even heard of one," says Malfoy. "They're not unique to England. You would've had to come across one in the States or at least learned about them in school." Carefully, he adds, "You don't know much, do you, Hermione?"

"Don't call me that," she mumbles into the carpet.

He sighs and tells her again to focus on breathing. From the floor, she looks up at him. He's taking in their surroundings, his mouth pinched.

"This was your wife's closet, wasn't it?"

He ignores the question.

"Her shoes. They're very nice. She had good taste."

He drops his head, smirking to himself. Like he's remembering something.

"Daddy?" Scorpius pokes his head into the closet. "Is it gone?"

"For now. I'll have to get rid of the armoire, it looks like."

He pouts. "But it's Mummy's."

"I know."

The boy looks down at his slippers. "I wasn't supposed to come in here. I'm sorry."

Malfoy doesn't reprimand him or say anything at all for a minute or so. He's annoyed and trying to hide it from his cherubic kid how pissed off he is at him. But can young children be held accountable for their insatiably aggressive curiosity?

"How did that thing get in there?"

Again, Malfoy doesn't reply.

Scorpius goes around his father and kneels beside her, patting her head. "Are you going to be okay?"

Hermione shrugs.

He bends down and kisses her cheek, and she jerks away from his sticky, wet mouth.

"All better," he declares proudly.

"Yeah, kid. You broke the spell."

She sits up and scratches her forearm. If only, right?

The three of them return to the library where Hermione picks up her book. It's then Malfoy notices the burns on her fingertips. He grabs her hand and brings it closer to his eyes.

"You're a Mu…" He stops himself. Not like she cares all that much or at all. But if he did say _it_ , he can kiss his practically non-existent chances of fucking her goodbye. "A Muggle-Born. If I would've known, I—"

"Wouldn't have been so eager in inviting me to _tour your three estates_ ," she interjects, yanking back her hand. "Where's Isabella? I should probably take her with me to Nott's."

"My house-elf is bathing her—"

" _Mipsy._ She's got a name. You could use it. Instead of," Hermione snaps her fingers inches from his nose. "And then treat her like she's a convenient part of your décor that can perform tricks for you."

She hugs the book to her chest, avoiding his face, realizing she's acting stupid. He saw her weak and vulnerable and _crying_ , and she's embarrassed and disgusted with herself, so she's punishing him by pointing out his own flaws. Not so deep down, he's an entitled, racist asshole. He's also guilt-ridden by his late wife's death and his mother's illness, but she doesn't want to throw that in his face. That'd be cheap.

"I'm going to go," she says to the floor. "I'll tell Nott that Isabella's here. Bye."

He grabs her elbow. "I was going to say I would've warned you about the books, 17."

"You were about to call me a Mudblood."

Malfoy lets out a heavy sigh, and glances at Scorpius. "Please don't say that word around him. He's never heard it before, and I caught myself before I did say it. Scorpius, go to your room, go back to sleep, and I want you to forget you what you just heard, all right? 17 said a very bad word. It's not an adult bad word like the S word. It's a bad word for all ages, okay?"

The boy nods, eyes wide. "Okay," he says in a small voice.

When it's just them, Malfoy goes on to say that the derogative Mudblood is referred to as the M-word but most just say Muggle-Born. He's not sure how things are handled in the States, but here in England, that's what is said. That is what is said, and that is what is appropriate.

"The M-word?" Her brows raise, her mouth twisting into an incredulous smile. "Like the N-word, then."

His brow scrunches. "What's the N-word?"

"Never mind. I guess you wouldn't know, and I really don't want to explain it. It's an unsavory… _Muggle_ term. We'll leave it at that."

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe. "You say you're always hungry. Would you like to stay and have another breakfast? We're nearly there."

"I'm tired," she replies truthfully. "We've both had a hell of a night and deserve a little rest."

Malfoy's eyes become unfocused, and she notices his Adam's apple quiver. "Blaise has two half-sisters in France. I should contact them. Theo's not going to have any time in making arrangements given the investigation. It'll fall on me, and I don't know about the Weasleys and their funeral traditions. I really don't look forward in dealing with them."

He's not going rest, she concludes. He'll keep busy, so she bids him goodnight and good morning.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she adds.

"I'll bring Isabella over in a bit, but Theo might want her to stay with me anyway."

She nods and then walks away from him, navigating through the house by memory and going through the office fireplace to get back to Nott's. His office shows no sign of life, and there's no sound coming from anywhere. He and Potter haven't come back yet which is good. Fine. The grandfather clock tells her it's nearly 6:30. Remus will be here soon for her lessons.

Rubbing her eyes, she drags her feet out of the office and towards the stairs, tripping over something solid. She looks down and sees Lilo dead at her feet. His body is rigid, mouth open as if he died mid-scream. Hermione covers her mouth, eyes darting around before quietly sets her book down on the floor. A portrait of a woman resembling Nott catches her attention. The woman silently screams at her to _run_. She points her finger down the hallway and motions for her to leave and to turn around and go back into the office.

Hermione does just that, only for the office doors to slam shut. She tries to open the door, but the handle won't budge. She looks over her shoulder and sees a man at the end of the hallway. He appears to be in his late fifties, early sixties with wiry limbs and a slight paunch. His watery blue eyes slide over her, resting on her face.

"It's you. I thought it'd be harder to find you," he says. His voice is hoarse. Faded. Overused. He raises his wand and rasps out a cackle.

Hermione doesn't have time to think. She rolls to the floor, and the spell the man shot at her, blows a splintering whole in the doors. He waves his wand again, and strong, unbreakable tethers sprout up from the floor, wrapping around her neck, wrists, and ankles. The man's entire body shakes in pleasurable mirth. His free hand points at his wand, and he dances down the hallway towards her. Even doing a twirl and kicking his heels together.

"I'm free!" he exclaims, laughing manically. When he gets to her, he pokes her forehead a few times with the tip of his wand. "God, does it feel good to have one of these again!"

"Who are you?" The tether tightens around her neck, and there goes her air supply.

"Forgive me." He touches his chest and bows mockingly. "Prisoner 73180. The Fridge sends its best, and HYDRA sends her regards."

How nice of them, she thinks.

"They said," he nods excitedly. "They said if I bring back your head, they'll never take another witch or wizard again, and they won't kill *Johnny. They think he's an Inhuman, but he's like us. He just got _stuck_ that way as a kid, you know? Accidental magic. He needs to get back home, so he can be fixed. They'll let him go home if I kill you. He needs to go home."

His wand traces the skin above the tether and her neck. "I'll be quick. This won't hurt. The spell to kill you is fast. You'll already be gone from this life when I remove your pretty, little noggin." He touches her eyes, forcing them to close. "Keep them shut. It'll be easier for both of us."

Hermione will not be doing her murderer any favors. She snaps open her eyes. He then covers them with his hand.

"Relax. It will be okay. Everything will be okay from now on."

This...isn't how Hermione pictured herself going, but people like herself shouldn't be picky.

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

 **To be Continued...**

* * *

*John Horton: a prisoner of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s prison called The Fridge. I've modified his character just a tiny bit for this chapter to better fit the situation.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: I'd really love your guy's feedback on this one. Please R &R. Tell me what you think, and how I'm doing. I appreciate the comments and constructive criticism. Also, I'll probably be cleaning up former chapters and fixing continuity errors and such. Little things that won't change the main plot.**

 **Thanks so much and enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 32: Murder on the Mind**

" _Avada Kedavera!"_

" _Protego Maxima!"_

A combustion of energy erupts between Hermione and the man, forcing him backwards twenty feet or more, slamming into the wall, knocking down and breaking couple of portraits. The occupants flee from sight. He slumps to the ground, unconscious. Blood trickles down an open wound at his temple.

Soo-jin appears at Hermione's side who can't help but roll her eyes and choke out, "Oh, God, it's you."

"Good thing, yeah? Finite Incantateum." The tethers release her limbs and neck. Hermione sucks in a deep breath, glaring at the woman before rage overpowers her logic and tries to attack her "savior". She's only able to jerk spastically as her brand flares. Every muscle in body clenches. Her body falls to the floor, and her tongue catching in her teeth as they clamp down. Blood fills her mouth and drains down her throat causing her to choke.

" _I'm making it worse,"_ she remembers Malfoy saying.

She vaguely notices Soo-jin frowning, looking at her brand and catching the book on the floor. Her eyes narrow. "You went messing with it, didn't you? For God's sake, you could've killed yourself, you stupid woman!"

Waving her wand, the book bursts into flames and disintegrates into ashes in seconds. Hermione can't even comprehend the notion to care right now. Soo-jin then grabs Hermione's forearm, touching certain parts of the brand and muttering words under her breath. Hermione's muscles unclench, her entire body bathed in sweat. She twists herself, so her upper half faces downwards. She vomits violently. Her stomach and lungs convulse, and bloody snot drips repugnantly out of her nose. Soo-jin pats the space between her shoulders, clicking her tongue.

"There, there. Get it all out, 17. I'll ask how you found out about the book later, yeah?"

"Fuck you, bitch," she groans, spitting. The 'bitch' part doesn't come out very edgily, unfortunately.

Soo-jin casts another spell, and Hermione's tongue heals. Her eyes close, using her hand as temporarily pillow. Gathering her bearings before she manages to sit up and wipe the bloody sick off her chin with the side of her hand. Her shirt is already caked in dry blood from the arrow wound, and you know what? Hermione's had a really bad night. Three people have tried to kill her in the past six hours and, yes, one of them was that boggart thing, but that fucker still counts. She's counting it, and she's done. Hermione can't kill Soo-jin, but she can kill Prisoner 54321 or whatever his name is.

Soo-jin catches her staring at the unconscious man and whispers, "He killed my elf."

Her features darken, and she snarls, a tear streaming down her cheek. "He fucking killed my elf! Lilo was my friend!" She crawls over to Lilo, sobbing. Her fingers come to his eyelids, sliding them shut, only for them to spring back open. "They're not staying closed." She tries again a few more times before giving up before she stands on swaying legs, her hand below her heart. "Bubble? Ripper?"

Two elves appear holding each other, bulbous eyes wet and pink, their knobby knees knocking together, Soo-jin lets out a sigh of relief, kneeling and enveloping them in a tight hug like a mother seeing her children after a long time apart. They cling to her, their misshapen heads buried in her shoulders.

"What happened?" she asks.

"H-He came th-through the Floo with H-Harry P-Potter and Master Nott," says one of the elves.

"Harry? He brought him here? Why? Who is this man? Where's Harry now? Where's Theo?"

The other elf fiddles with her spindly fingers. "Ripper and Bubble do not know why Harry Potter and Master brought Mr. Tonks, but Master's guest was not well. Not well at all, but Master and Harry Potter had to leave suddenly and could not bring Mr. Tonks with them. Master asked Lilo to care for Mr. Tonks. After Master and Harry Potter left, Mr. Tonks asked Lilo questions. He pulled out a picture of her."

Bubble, Hermione presumes, points to her.

Soo-jin looks at Hermione. "Who is he, 17?"

"He's from HYDRA, but I've never met him before in my life."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Thinking about it, it's not far-fetched. We couldn't have been the only two taken _ever_ , Soo-jin. He was sent from HYDRA to kill me and to report back _with my head_. I don't know how many they have. Up until five minutes ago, I thought we were the only ones they took. He told me there's another where he came from. HYDRA has a facility for _abnormal_ people—"

"It doesn't matter," she interrupts, waving her hand dismissively. She looks to back to the elves. "Why did he kill Lilo?"

Ripper continues, "At first, Ripper thought Lilo was trying to stir trouble, Mistress. Lilo didn't like Miss 17, so Lilo said yes that Miss 17 lives here and antagonizes the mistress of the house."

"Mr. Tonks began asking more questions," adds Bubble. "Like if Miss 17 was in the house that exact moment. Where Miss 17 sleeps. Which was when Lilo began thinking Mr. Tonks was up to no good. Lilo didn't like Miss 17 but didn't want her physically harmed. Lilo knew Miss 17 is special to Mistress, so Lilo said no more. Then Mr. Tonks didn't like that. Mr. Tonks started torturing Lilo, but still, Lilo would not say nothing, Mistress.

"Soon enough, Mr. Tonks lost patience and killed Lilo," says Ripper. He looks down as if ashamed. "Ripper and Bubble were too scared to try and help."

Soo-jin's gaze becomes unfocused, and she sniffs. "For multiple reasons. You were afraid you'd be punished for intervening between a wizard disciplining his inferior."

Bubble bobs her head up and down. Soo-jin pats her head. "It's all right. I'm not angry with either one of you. Go and…go and tend to the garden. Pick a nice place for Lilo to rest, all right? 17 and I need to take care of somethings."

The elves bow and vanish. Soo-jin wipes her cheeks and throws a revolted albeit a perplexed look at the unconscious man.

"Tonks," she says, casting Hermione a side glance. "A Teddy Tonks was believed to be killed during the war, like twelve years ago. Supposedly by some Snatcher. Kind of like bounty hunters. I don't know much about him, but I've worked alongside his daughter a few times on cases."

"I don't care who he is." Hermione walks over to him, wiggling her fingers pointedly. "He's HYDRA now and wants my head. The question is…are you going to stop me?"

The woman stares at Lilo's tiny, lifeless form and then looks down. "The portraits will see. A few of them have other frames at other houses, and they can speak freely there. It'd be too much of a mess to cover up if I let you kill him."

'A mess bigger than the deaths of Blaise and Ginny Zabini?' she wants to ask, but keeps her mouth shut.

"We'll wait for Theo and Potter to get back. Tell them what happened." Soo-jin picks up Tonk's broken wand and then waves her own at him. Like what the man did to Hermione, Soo-jin summons tethers from the floor and wall, binding him. She then casts another spell, and he completely disappears.

"Mr. Lupin will be here soon. I can't have him running across his father-in-law in such a state."

Hermione wants to protest but remembering what Nott's promise of Soo-jin getting her just desserts keeps her silent. Killing Soo-jin would be a fattening treat for Hermione. Allowing Nott to have the privilege while Hermione watches, well, that's frozen yogurt. Still delicious, though only eighty-five percent satisfying. The result is the same, nonetheless. Ding dong, the witch is dead.

Hermione catches Soo-jin's confused expression. "What?" she asks.

"Good God, you're filthy. And your _hair_." She shakes her head. "Forget Tonks. I can't have Mr. Lupin running across you in such a state. Go get cleaned up. Your lessons still need to continue. Now whether Mr. Lupin still wants to come here and teach you have all this _bullshit_ gets out, who's to say?"

Her brand burns. Not badly. Just enough Hermione knows there's no point in arguing. Her feet take her up the stairs to her bedroom. She washes and changes quickly before returning downstairs, all but running, not wanting to miss the show of Nott skinning alive Soo-jin while she and Potter watch from a respectable distance, smoking cigarettes and sipping tea.

Instead Hermione comes to a complete halt, suppressing an undignified and disappointed squeak because, yes, Nott and Potter are there. It's just that Nott's not making her beg for death. He's…hugging her. And whispering words of comfort into her hair while she cries into his chest.

Potter stops pacing at her arrival and both he and Nott give her a pointed stare. The former gestures a cutting motion at his neck, silently telling her to keep quiet and play along. Her eyes go to Nott who gives away nothing. She reaches out and reads him. On the exterior, he's the comforting ex-fiancée who's still in love with Soo-jin. On the inside, he's a new recruit. Another player in Potter's game of exploiting Soo-jin and through her, unveiling all the other opponents.

"17," starts Potter, dipping his chin.

Her eyes go to where Tonks disappeared. "Is he…?"

"You know," Potter chuckles like someone tickled him with a sharp knife. "I thought I was going to be having one of the worst nights of my life. There was a silver-lining, though. Teddy Tonks. A good man, a good father, and a good friend who died years ago miraculously shows up at his widow's house. I'm asked to come over by his daughter who can't bear the sight of him. She can't bear doing the tests ensuring he is who claims to be and neither can her mum—"

"Cut the drama, Potter," Nott interjects. "No need to make a sob-story out of it. If anymore tears fall in this house, we'll be swimming our way to work, won't we? Look, we shouldn't have left him here. He was clearly unfit, but his wife didn't want him at the house, and his daughter didn't want him near her kids. You could smell the cuckoo off him, ripe and proper."

"We got a lead on Den—" Potter licks his teeth and continues, "I mean Creevey—"

"I just can't believe he would do something like this!" exclaims Soo-jin. She rushes to Potter, tugging on his shirt and shaking her head. "It can't be him. How could he? He's the gentlest of souls."

She's good. Hermione will give her that, but Potter needs to be better. This woman may not have personally killed the Zabini's, but she's guilty, regardless. Potter impressed Hermione once before. Can he do it again? Nott's spectacular. Even with Soo-jin's back to him, his troubled yet stoic features don't betray him.

"My heart is broken, too. I feel like I've been betrayed. He and his brother were so loyal doing the war."

"But _why_ would he have killed them? How could he have killed Ginny? Everyone loves Ginny—"

"Dennis may have been having an affair with her," Nott provides and before Soo-jin can look his way over her shoulder, his façade does break a millisecond to curl his lips in disgust at Potter. It wasn't _Creevey_ having the affair with Ginny. "That's what it's looking like. He may have not…been intending to kill her but only Blaise and out of jealousy. Because at the end of the day, he knew she'd _always_ belong to him."

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose. Enough of this soap opera shit. "What are we going to do with the son of a bitch who wanted to send my head to my former employer? I say we kill him."

"Absolutely not!" Potter roars, shoving Soo-jin away from him. "He's just confused—"

"It's not like he's unsure about his sexuality, Potter. I mean, if you want to be polite about it, you can call him damaged, but at the end of the day, he's dangerous. He tortured and killed an elf then tried to behead me. He's HYDRA. One hundred percent. Do you know why his daughter and wife were more scared than happy when he dropped in on them? Nott's right. They knew he was rotten. HYDRA strips people of everything that makes a person _them_. They break your goodness into teeny, tiny pieces and suck it out with a vacuum, only to flood your husk with poison. He's evil now. He doesn't care about the family he had. He went to them because it was a start to get to me. He doesn't want to go back to them. He doesn't love them anymore."

"I'm not listening to this—"

"Harry," says Soo-jin, taking out the broken wand Tonks had from her pocket. "He had this on him. I very much doubt he was immediately handed a wand upon his return."

Potter clamps his teeth together, taking the pieces. "This is Teddy Lupin's wand. He must've swiped it before we took him here. God, how did I not notice that?"

"Potter, we can bring him in for premeditated and attempt of murder. Thievery, damage of property," says Nott. "I'll press charges because he murdered my elf." He lays it on thick and good by coming up to Soo-jin, caressing her arm. "He was very dear to you, I know that, sweetheart. 17 can press charges, but I can't imagine sticking her in front of the Wizengamot when she has no real identity. We'd have to bring that into the mix, too. And let's be honest, mate. That might've been the dream a week ago. Hell, twenty-four hours ago, but it's not now. She's got to be put on the backburner now. Think about it. We go through all the legal channels. We dot the I's and cross the T's. He goes to trial and gets sent to Azkaban. Imagine the effect on his wife. His daughter and her children. She's with child, and it's already a high-risk pregnancy. She could lose it like she lost the last one—"

"Shut up! For God's sake, shut up!" Potter rakes both hands through his hair, panting. "Are you listening to yourself, Nott? Hermione, I understand, but _you_. We can't just kill him."

Looking at her nails, Hermione shoots Potter a coy expression. "I never did care for group projects. People don't pull their weight. I can kill this man in three seconds."

They all stare at her, unimpressed. Nott lifts his wand. "We can all do that."

Her eyes roll. "Then I'd like to volunteer myself for this task."

"We'll keep him in Malfoy's dungeon," Potter suggests.

"So you don't want to kill him right away, just slowly. Bit by bit, over a period of time," mocks Nott.

Wow. Malfoy's got a dungeon. Kinky.

"I'd say we could do it here in yours, but there's too much of a risk that Remus could come across him. And this way…maybe Malfoy could help him. He's a healer and if I remember right, he's brilliant at _fixing broken things_."

Nott laughs incredulously, hands up and fingers spread. "Fuck you, Potter. I _am not_ involving Draco in this. The funeral's going to be on him. He's going to have to deal with the Weasleys. And I can't take care of Isabella. Not with my work. Not with what I do. He's going to have to take her in if none of the Weasley's can do it. Forgive me if I don't bust into his house , the dead husband of his Blood-Traitor aunt in tow, and ask him to imprison this man in said house that was specifically designed and built to harm and or kill Muggle-Borns if they so happen to set foot on the property. Let's not forget, either, that the Ministry often makes surprise visits. For obvious reasons, the dungeons are always checked. Can you imagine the consequences if they see Tonks in a cell?"

Potter covers his face and blindly walks down the hall, the other three staring after him in bewilderment.

"Where are you going?" asks Soo-jin.

"To drown myself in the fucking pool again."

Nott snorts, and Soo-jin lets out a flabbergasted sigh. "He never thinks things through," she mutters to the ceiling and then says to Nott. "You did good. It's moronic to hole up this man at Malfoy Manor."

"Oh, it's totally happening if Potter won't let us get rid of this blighter. He's not staying _here_ and _alive_. If he was already dead, I'm sure I could find a spot in the garden for him—"

"Lilo will be out there. He can't be near him. I won't allow it."

"You guys know he's serious, right?" says Hermione. "Potter's going to drown himself. He did it last night. I had to revive him and everything."

Clapping his hands, Nott nods appreciatively. "Great. With him dead, fuck the legal channels. Soo-jin, my former love, do you have any qualms about what needs to be done?"

"He killed Lilo, so…" She glances over at the area where Tonks is. "No. I don't."

"Then all that's left is tying up loose ends. A simple memory spell on Nymphadora and Andromeda and…well, probably at least ten people. Some of them kids. Christ, this is going to get messy—"

"You can just say it wasn't really him. Polyjuice potion—"

"Mmm," noises Nott in consideration. He strokes his chin. "Not likely. How would it be explained that someone had his hair after twelve years. Plus, he's aged. Like really bad."

"Then we go with that it wasn't really Teddy Tonks who returned from the grave. Some lunatic that kind of looked like him was trying to…get his fingers in Andromeda Tonk's compensation fund."

"Not a bad idea. She gets a check every month and word has it, it's pretty fair. We could think of better, I reckon, if we really put our heads together."

Well, damn. If Nott wasn't a somewhat prejudice prick at the end of the day and if Soo-jin wasn't a lying, murderous, bona fide cunt; Hermione would think they were kind of perfect for each other. It's not a wonder how they got together. Their chemistry is on point. He's flawlessly falling back into the rhythm with her, using that harmony and ease, to hide how badly he wants to squeeze her neck and bash her head into floor.

Nott's acting is worthy of a true spy. Color Hermione impressed.

"Well, I'll leave you both to it," she says. "Don't forget that Mr. Lupin will be here soon. I'm going to go save Potter. So if you're going to kill Tonks, I suggest you be quick about it."

* * *

Right when she gets to the pool area, Potter's just about to take his swan dive. His glasses and shoes are off, his arms relaxed, and his sock-clad toes curled over the edge of the wet concrete. He starts to lean towards the water, and she casually walks up behind and grabs the back of his shirt, jerking him backwards. A surprised yelp escapes his lips, and he scrambles to find balance and fails. His ass hits the ground hard, a string of colorful words echoes off the walls.

"First things first," Hermione says, primly sitting down on one of the pool chairs, crossing her legs. "No more suicide attempts. I get it. You've been depressed for a while. All your life, really. With Ginny dying, you feel like a failure and that it's a good excuse to really carry on with it this time as opposed to just fantasizing about it for the last ten years. It's not. Now if you doubt me, that's fine. I don't care. But hold off any dramatic exits _until_ this whole genocide Pureblood thing blows over. You can't leave me alone in this. Nott won't fight for me. He won't protect me from Soo-jin. Remus wants to stay out of it, and Snape will just kill me. Like you, I don't necessarily value my own life, but I need to stay alive for at least a little longer, so I can end HYDRA. You can't just see them as some abstract evil not effecting your life. You saw what they've done to your friend."

She's not even close to being finished but stops to take a breather and let Potter process her words. So far, he's still wrapped up in his own self-loathing, and he might've absorbed every five or so words. He hasn't moved from the ground, his knees are up, and his arms are hanging off them. He bows his head and makes a disgruntled sound.

"I'm tired, Hermione," he says after a few minutes. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he confesses, "I murdered Dennis."

She blinks. She hadn't seen that coming.

"So you found him?"

His chuckle his sharp. "He went to Hogwarts. The school. It's where his brother died and told the headmistress there what he did. I guess he couldn't believe what he'd done. He was guilt-ridden and needed to confess to someone." He sniffs, rubbing his eyes with sides of his hands. "He wasn't supposed to kill Ginny or Isabella. Just Blaise. But the headmistress told him he needed to turn himself in, and he asked if she would contact me. He wanted _me_ to bring him in, and that was a mistake. Nott and I, we apprehended him from the school and took him to the interrogation room at the office. Nott left us alone to get some coffee, and I…it was like someone else took over my body, and I-I-I cast the Killing Curse. He wasn't armed, Hermione, and no one was watching. It was just us. I have an unregistered third wand, and I planted it on him. Made it seem Dennis tried to attack me. That I acted in self-defense, but I think he knows. I think Nott knows it's a lie."

Hermione stares at him from her chair. "Harry," she starts, using his first name because it wouldn't be appropriate to call him anything else right now. "Have you never killed anyone before?"

He shakes his head no. "I've lived and fought in a war. I battled Voldemort who died because of things I did. I've cast spells with intent to harm, but I never outright killed anyone. Even with this job, I've always been able to avoid it." He releases a shaky breath. "And it's not just murdering him eating me alive. He had information. He was a part of this movement happening around the world, and I think he would've confessed all he knew. But I didn't care. I _did_ think about that. Before I drew my wand him. There's no _justifying_ what I've done. I murdered him simply because he murdered the woman I love…who didn't even belong to me."

Her head shakes. "That's not simple. Killing isn't simple. If it was…you wouldn't feel the way you do now."

"Yeah." He sniffles again. "Bet you found that out at a lot younger age than I did."

She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward, trying to keep her eyes focused. Potter needs something real from her. He spilled over on her and desperately needs something in return. To ease the ache. To know he's not the only one who's a monster, and Hermione has no obligation to comfort him. She has no obligation to say anything personal to him in return.

But she will.

Hermione thinks about Clint Barton and the deep friendship he formed with Natalia who needed to confide in someone who was innately good. Hermione already knew all of Natalia's sins and loved her anyway, but the woman needed more. She needed to talk to someone who wasn't equally as rotten as her. Who wouldn't brush off her crimes or say something along the lines of 'we've all made mistakes, Nat' and give her a side hug and go on their merry way. Barton wasn't like that. At first, he was a listening ear before he gave advice. The advice he gave to Nat was direct and lacking bullshit. When her demons got too loud. When her heart became to heavy. When the business end of her pistol seemed like the only way out of her own head.

" _There are thousands of people who are planning evil shit just like all the evil shit you used to do. Are you going to stop them? Or are you going to mope in the dark like that artsy fartsy_ Angel _douche from_ Buffy _? Get off your ass and stop them, Romanoff."_

Eventually, Barton became more personal and apparently divulged to Natalia some of his own sins he committed before he was recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. Hermione knows some of them but not all, and they're nowhere near as wicked as Nat's.

He's wise, that Barton. Despite nearly disfiguring her.

Potter needs a Barton.

And so does she. Potter's not the perfect candidate, but given he's pretty much the only one, she can't afford to be picky.

"I was twelve," she finally says and prepares herself for the look of contempt on Potter's face. At first, he doesn't disappoint, but then a few seconds later, it melts into sadness. For a moment, he forgets his own crime. He gets up and joins her by sitting on the neighboring pool chair.

"You can go on if you want," he tells her. "I promise I won't make that face again."

She laughs. "Don't make promises you can't keep. The person I killed was a good man, and it wasn't in self-defense. Not really. He wouldn't have killed me, and I even knew that then, but I didn't care. When I pulled that trigger, I thought I was being honorable. Strong. Loyal. It was awful, the feeling I had afterwards. The second time wasn't much better."

It's been a few years since she let herself think about Taru.

"And I may've loved her. It's hard to say," she says after a pause. "She was beautiful. Long, rose-gold hair and skin like snow and eyes as blue as the hope diamond. And I shot her in the heart."

"How old were you then?"

"Eighteen."

Potter swallows, his hand does something weird and jerky before he rests it on her knee. "Do you remember them?"

She frowns at his hand, though she decides not to smack it away. "All of them."

"Do you regret all of them?"

She shakes her head no, and he nods acceptingly.

"I can't kill Tonks. Not after what I just did to Dennis. Two murders on my hands. I can't do it."

" _You_ don't have to kill him."

"Knowing who killed him and not stopping it when I could is enough to further bloody my hands." He massages his face. "What am I going to do? Another war is coming and during the last one, I didn't feel so lucky, but now I know I was. I've always been able to cast a less harmful spell and live another day. This is so much bigger and worse. I killed Dennis, and yet I can't imagine ever taking another life again. What am I going to do? People will look to me as their beacon of hope. Their leader. I can gather an army, sure, but I'd rather take my own life than someone else's. I'm not even fit to be a soldier—"

Hermione cuts him off by breathing in loud and sharp. She mimics him, placing her hand on his knee and squeezing. "Listen, you precious, little marshmallow. Stop brooding. I read what happened in the history book you bought me, and Madam Malkin's may've lent a good deal of information, too. _That's_ a lot of responsibility to put on a child and because you were so young, you may have felt obligated to be this _Chosen One—"_

"I was the Chosen One—"

"Well, that's not the case this time. There's no prophecy. No Chosen One. No horcruxes. There's no one in your head but _you._ You don't have to be anyone's beacon of hope or well of information. You don't have to be a leader. When the people wake up and realize there's a problem going on and look to you to fix it, pass the torch on to someone else. You don't owe them an explanation as to why. If anything, they owe you enough to trust that you're making the best decision for them by _not_ taking up the reigns again."

"Right," he says and the more convincingly he repeats it again. " _Right_."

"Right," Hermione agrees. She gets up and allows herself in offering a hand to him. He grimaces. Not at her hand, just at how difficult things will be from here. She wiggles her fingers pointedly. "You can do it. Come on. I'm right here, and I literally can't go anywhere."

He chuckles, sad and miserable, taking her hand in his. They're both warm, callused, and unsure. She begins to walk, tugging him with her.

"Come on. There's work to be done."

 **To be Continued...**


End file.
